


So Long As I'm With You

by claryclark



Category: Outlander & Related Fandoms, Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Alternate History, Alternate Universe, American History, Angst, F/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2019-01-25
Packaged: 2019-08-08 17:47:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 75,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16434005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/claryclark/pseuds/claryclark
Summary: Secret Service Agent Jamie meets First Lady Claire





	1. Shadow

**Author's Note:**

> This is a new fic that I started working on because I have no self control. I really wanted to do something that would combine my two loves: Outlander and history. This fic is losley based on the relationship between Jackie Kennedy and her secret service agent, Clint Hill. (Very loosely, i.e. I am not insinuating that Jackie O and Clint Hill were ever involved I just thought this might be a cool concept for an Outander fic). I’ve also had to fudge a few details in the historical timeline but hey its my fic and I can do what I want. Annnnyywayy. 
> 
> This story begins in 1952 at the end of Harry Truman’s presidency. America is about to elect a new President and Jamie and Claire both find themselves far from home.

Chapter One: Shadow 

November 3rd, 1952

Jamie Fraser had always been very good at hiding his thoughts. A lucky thing, that, he thought as he eyed the man sitting across from him, head buried in a file that bore Jamie’s name. They’d been sitting there in that tiny windowless room for an agonizing forty-five minutes. Jamie hated sitting still. He craved the freedom of movement and relished in the breathless agony he found at the height of a six-mile run, or in the clap of his padded fist against an Everlast heavy bag.

Jamie couldn’t help but wonder how his friend managed it, sitting in this tiny room with no sunlight and no room to move. He tried to reconcile the image before him with that of the rowdy American soldier he’d known back in France. Perhaps Morgan found his peace somewhere in this tiny room, though Jamie couldn’t imagine how.

Dan Morgan had been Jamie’s counterpart in the joint team of British and American special forces that infiltrated Nazi occupied France in the weeks leading up to D-Day. He’d gone to hell and back with the man and the bond between them was forged in honor and blood.

“I never did think to thank ye.” Jamie said, feeling the need to end the silence.

“Hmm?” Morgan intoned, not looking up from the file. “For what?”

“For getting me here.” Jamie said, gesturing at the office walls around them. “It’s a hell of a gig.”

At that Morgan finally looked up. Sighing, he put down the file.

“No need to thank me Fraser. I was told to bring in the best man for the job. And I did.”

Jamie grunted and allowed the moment of brief sentimentality to pass. Some things were better left unsaid.

Morgan nodded at the file on the desk. “You did well in training. My bosses were very impressed.”

“Aye? What’s the next step then?” Jamie asked, anxious to get on with things.

“You’ll start your first shift tomorrow night.”

“Tomorrow night?” Jamie exclaimed, incredulous. “Election night?”

“Does that work for you?” Morgan looked amused.

“Aye, of course. I just thought that Mrs.- ”

Morgan put up a hand cutting him off. “Code name, Fraser.”

“Apologies. I thought Outlander…” Jamie had to force himself to say the word that felt so awkward on his tongue. “I thought she wanted to meet me first, before I officially took the post.”

Jamie just couldn’t get used to the damn codenames. It seemed such a silly practice. But it was very important to his new employers. Unless they were speaking directly to the protectees themselves, agents always used codenames.

Morgan shrugged. “No time. The Director said it couldn’t be helped. You wouldn’t believe how much pressure we’re under. The game changed after the war and we’re still catching up.”

Jamie’s jaw tightened.

“I canna imagine she’s pleased. I’m gonna be w’ her more than any of the other lads, she had good reason to want to meet me first.”

Jamie was surprised at how much it bothered him that this choice was taken away from her. Did the poor lass no’ get to make any of her own decisions anymore?

“Sure, but she understands the demands of her position.” Morgan shrugged, clearly unconcerned.

“’Sno’ exactly her position yet though, aye?”

“By all accounts it will be. The experts say it won’t even be close.”

Jamie nodded. “Will she.. uh…” He hesitated, trying to fight the blush he felt burning along the nape of his neck. “Will she, well, do ye think she’ll be alright with it? W’ me I mean.”

“Are you asking if I think she’ll like you?” Morgan asked, lips pressed tightly together as he tried to hide his smirk.

“Ye ken what I mean..” Jamie answered, rolling his eyes. “Just answer the question.”

Morgan shrugged. “Hard to say, really. I don’t see why she wouldn’t. You’re more than qualified and the epitome of professionalism. Plus, you might make her feel a little less homesick.”

Jamie furrowed his brow. “I thought she was English?”

“She is.”

Jamie pursed his lips. “Ye do know the difference between an Englishman and a Scot, don’t ye?”

Morgan laughed out loud at that. “You may not be English, but you’re not American either.” He paused, scratching the back of his neck. “I think she feels like she’s surrounded by strangers. At the very least, ye’ll be just as out of place as she is.”

There was a long silence as Jamie absorbed this. Finally, Morgan cleared his throat.

“So, now, I suppose I only have one question.” He said, suddenly very formal.

“Aye?”

“Do you accept the post?”

“I do.” Jamie answered without hesitation. He needed this so badly. He needed a purpose again.

“Well then.” Morgan slapped the table with finality before rising to his feet.

“James Fraser.” He said as Jamie stood, shaking his hand firmly. “Welcome to the United States Secret Service.”

November 4th, 1952

Claire Beauchamp Randall sat at her dressing table in the master bedroom of a large Boston mansion, trying to ignore the voices of strangers down stairs. She could hear his voice, loud and boisterous and unfailingly charming.

He’d asked her to wear this dress tonight. “You look simply divine in red, dear.”

Claire looked down at the rough fabric of her dress. It was red. She hadn’t noticed. She wondered in a detached sort of way when she had stopped noticing colors.

Unable to bear the sight of her own reflection any longer, she stood, making her way over to sit on the huge bed in the middle of the room. The mattress was stiff and unused. They’d scarcely set foot in their Boston home in the past year and the place felt strangely alien. But then again, no place had ever felt like home to Claire.

She glanced at the framed picture on her nightstand. It was from the day she’d graduated from Nurse’s training. Lamb had been so proud. He had been Claire’s family since the day her parents died when she was five. She often wondered what her Uncle Lamb would think of her if he saw her now. Would he have wanted this life for her? She thought back to the day he’d first been hired as private tutor to the Randall children.

“It will be an adventure, darling girl.” He’d said.

Frank had been off at law school by the time Lamb and Claire had moved into the Randall’s guest house. Lamb only met him a few times. If he’d had any particular opinion of Frank, he’d never shared it with Claire.

As if on cue, the bedroom door slowly creaked open. Frank stuck his head in.

“There you are. Are you almost ready? Everyone is waiting.”

Claire stood and forced a smile. “Coming now, darling.”

Frank smiled back, eyes running over her body, almost business like in their appraisal.

“Hang on.” He said, stepping forward and pushing back a stray curl until it disappeared into my immaculately coiffed bun. That’s how Frank liked her. Not a hair out of place.

“There.” He said, satisfied. He leaned in and pressed his cold lips to her forehead. “Now you’re perfect.”

He took her hand. “Come. Mother and Dad are downstairs and I promised Geordie Chisolm from the Times that we’d give him at least five minutes.”

Claire’s stomach dropped. More than anything else, she hated talking to reporters.

He lead her down the stairs into the cavernous living room. It was full of people; staffers that worked for Frank’s campaign, security detail, big donors. Claire couldn’t remember the last time she wasn’t surrounded by strangers. She relaxed a little when she saw Nora Randall. Claire had been an awkward 11-year old in desperate need of mothering when they’d first met. Nora, being the mother of five sons, was more than happy to oblige. No matter how bad things got with Frank, she would always be grateful for the mother of her heart. She was embraced, first by Nora, then by Teddy, her father-in-law.

Teddy was a powerful businessman and had often been away during the years she spent living with the Randalls. They did not share the same bond that she shared with Nora but Claire was still quite fond of Teddy. Just before he died, Teddy had promised Lamb that he would always make sure Claire was taken care of, no matter what. ‘Don’t worry, sweetheart.’ He had murmured gently to Claire as she wept. ‘Randalls keep their promises.’

She looked from mother and father in-law to the rowdy mob of young boys that called her “sis.” More and more she thought maybe she didn’t fall in love with Frank, but rather with the family he gave her.

And what an impressive family it was. The Randalls had gotten their start in America a hundred years prior when Denys Randall immigrated to Boston from England. Over the next century, the family climbed through the ranks of the burgeoning American social class. Teddy, the current Randall patriarch, was one of the wealthiest and most powerful men in the country. But it wasn’t enough. Nothing was ever enough for the Randalls. Teddy wanted desperately to put a son in the White House and he’d spent years grooming Frank to do just that.

As sure as Claire was of their genuine love and affection for her, she often wondered if she’d been groomed for this life in much the same way that Frank was. She had been so young when she showed up in their lives. So vulnerable, so influenceable, so desperate for a family. Teddy and Nora never wasted an opportunity. They set to work early, using their love and acceptance to manipulate Claire into their image of the perfect daughter. The truth was, she started becoming Claire Randall long before her marriage.

Louise De Rohan, wife of the French ambassador, emerged from the crowd.

“Madame, you are a vision, as always!”

She kissed Claire on both cheeks before dragging her over to convene with the other wives of the rich and powerful.

At first, Claire tried in earnest to engage in the conversation, but after a few minutes her attention was drawn to the large bay window facing the street in front of their home. The drapes were drawn, but there was a little gap in the middle and Claire caught a hint of the crowd hovering outside, shivering in the frigid Boston air just on the off chance that they might catch a glimpse of the Randalls. Claire didn’t think she’d ever get used to that. Often, she would feel the pressure of the world’s eyes on her, piercing her skin like a million tiny daggers and she would wake deep in the night, trembling and soaked in sweat.

Forcing the thought of the crowd outside away from her mind, she noticed absently that the aforementioned reporter had made his way over to Frank. Claire pretended to be engaged with the group of women conversing around her, even though she knew Frank liked her to be by his side when he spoke to reporters. Very fond of their image as a couple, he was.

“Claire.” She stiffened her shoulders when Frank summoned her over. She swallowed and obligingly made her way over, walking stiffly like a condemned man might walk to the gallows.

She took a deep breath and summoned her alter-ego to the surface. Claire Beauchamp didn’t like to talk to reporters and hated attention but Claire Randall was made for the spotlight. Claire Beauchamp often wondered if she really knew the man she married, but Claire Randall was madly in love.

And so, Claire Randall dazzled the reporter with her best movie-star smile, sliding her hand into the crook of Frank’s arm. She offered her other hand to the reporter.

“Mr. Chisolm, how lovely to see you again.” She crooned as Chisolm took her hand graciously.

“And you, Mrs. Randall. Feeling excited tonight?” Chisolm smiled pleasantly enough but Claire still felt uneasy around him.

No, she wanted to say. She wanted to tell him that she couldn’t remember the last time she felt anything other than dread.

Instead, she smiled pleasantly. She answered that question and the next one and the next. Things were going well enough, until Chisolm unwittingly dropped a bomb.

“And what about children? Can we expect to hear the pitter patter of little feet in the White House halls?”

Claire felt Frank stiffen. Her mind raced, trying to figure out what to say, when Richard Brown appeared at her side.

“Excuse me, Sir. I’m sorry to interrupt. Could I borrow Mrs. Randall for a few minutes?”

Brown was a veteran agent with the Secret Service who’d been made head of Frank’s detail two weeks prior when it became clear that Frank’s landslide victory was all but guaranteed. Brown was stoic and quintessentially professional, with an air of absolute authority about him that even Frank didn’t question. Frank barely had time to mumble his assent before Brown began ushering Claire away, directing her down the hall to Frank’s study.

“Sorry to pull you away Mrs. Randall, but the new agent has just arrived. He’ll officially become your Shadow once the election is called. We thought it would be best for you to meet him quickly now, before the real madness begins.”

Claire silently nodded her assent. Brown had explained the premise of that particular position when he’d first been made head of Frank’s detail. Primary Protection Agents or “Shadows” as they were more frequently called, operated much differently than the rest of the agents that made up the Randalls’ massive security team. Shadows were the only agents to be assigned living quarters in the White House. Shadows did not have wives or children or any other attachments. Claire had been incredulous.

“Surely… surely this agent can’t be with me all the time?” She’d asked.

“Well, no not all the time.” Brown had said. “They’re allotted a reasonable amount of personal time.”

“What’s the point?” Claire asked. “Of such a position, I mean.”

Brown had shrugged as though it were obvious. “Your Shadow will become someone you can trust. Someone that you won’t hesitate to follow if there’s an emergency. He’ll know you well enough to predict how you’ll react to something.”

Seeing that she still wasn’t understanding, he went on.

“I don’t want to frighten you Mrs. Randall, but your husband is about to become one of the most famous men in the world. That kind of fame, comes with dangers that we can’t always predict. Shadows are a shield against the things we can’t see coming. We are charged with your protection, ma’am, just as we are your husbands.” 

And so, like Frank, Claire would have one agent who’s standing order was to essentially be by her side from the time she rose in the morning, to the time she went to bed at night. While the other agents would rotate through positions and shift schedules, Claire’s shadow would simply be with her constantly. She detested the idea, though she did, in a way, see the logic in it.

Claire took a seat in one of the large leather wingback chairs in Frank’s study.

“Well considering I wasn’t allowed a say in the matter, I suppose I’ll have to trust your judgement.” She said, not bothering to hide the acerbity in her tone.

Brown trudged on, unbothered. “His name is James Fraser. He’s got an impeccable military service record and preformed exemplarily in our training program. I assure you he is more than qualified.”

Claire kept her tone cold. “Well you’d best send him in then.”

As Brown left the room, she heard him mumble into his earpiece. She caught the whisper of her codename. Outlander. She hated the bloody codenames. The agents never called her that to her face of course, but she often heard it whispered amongst them in the shadows around her. Frank loved to tease her about it. A fitting name for the woman who would soon become the second English-born First Lady in American history. He was Orion, after Orion the hunter. Most likely inspired by Frank’s well known favorite past time. Orion and Outlander. President Truman had been Supervisor, his wife Sunnyside. Claire rolled her eyes. It was all bloody nonsense as far as she was concerned.

Claire stood and paced around the room. Movement seemed to help ease the pressure of the tremendous weight on her chest. Finding Frank’s whiskey decanter empty, she made her way over to the tall cabinet in the corner where he stored extra bottles on the top shelf. Unable to reach that high on her own, she dragged over a wobbly old stool to help her obtain the necessary height. Balancing precariously, she eventually worked herself up to stand on her tip toes, until she was just high enough reach the top shelf. Feeling around blindly, she had just wrapped her hand around a bottle when she heard the sound of coughing behind her. She jumped slightly in surprise and lost her balance.

The next thing she knew she was in a man’s arms, blinking up into a pair of ocean blue eyes. Stunned as she was, she couldn’t help but wonder whether she had ever seen a more beautiful shade of blue in all her life.

“Oh.” She said, a little breathless.

The man chuckled. “It appears I’ve got my work cut out for me then.”

He sat her down on her feet and all Claire could do was stare at him, clutching the whiskey bottle to herself with both hands.

“Are ye alright Mrs. Randall?” The use of her formal name brought her back to reality with a jolt.

“Y-yes. Quite alright, thank you.” She swallowed, trying to still the beating of her heart. “You must be Mr. Fraser.”

She offered Fraser her hand and he took it with surprising gentleness for a man his size. His flesh was shockingly warm, so warm that Claire still felt the burn of it imprinted on her palm even after he’d released her hand.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you ma’am.”

Claire smiled shyly, gesturing a pair of chairs by the fireplace. “Would you like to sit down?”

He sat as she poured herself a glass of whiskey. “Would you like anything to drink?”

“Nay, I’m afraid drinking while on duty is frowned upon. But I thank ye.”

Claire finally noticed the soft lilt of his accent. “They didn’t tell me you were Scottish.” She said, sitting down in the chair across from him.

“Did they no’?”

It was a little disconcerting seeing this man sitting in Frank’s favorite chair. Physically, the men could not be more opposite. Frank was average height and lean, classically handsome and clean cut. Fraser was tall. Very tall. The broad expanse of his muscled shoulders packed neatly away in a somber black suit, promising both strength and grace. She eyed the sharp lines of his face, from the strong jaw to the high defined cheekbones. He was, quite simply, striking.

Suddenly realizing that she was staring, she looked away from him, cheeks burning furiously.

“Are ye sure yer alright Mrs. Randall?” His face was earnest, and she could hear the genuine concern in his voice.

“Yes, I’m fine. Just nervous. You know…” She trailed off, still not look at him, and took a sip of whiskey. “Big night and all.”

A long silence passed between them. Fraser didn’t seem to feel the need to engage her in frivolous conversation as most other people did. She wondered if he somehow sensed that she needed a moment to gather her thoughts. There was something so inherently…. patient about the man.

When she was ready, she spoke again. “They told me you were in the war. In France.”

She sensed the tension run through him like a bolt of lightning. For the first time in several minutes, she looked at him. He lifted up a hand, as though to run it through his hair, but then stopped, apparently thinking better of it. It was slicked back neatly, like all the other agents. Was his hair was really such a deep russet color, or had the gel he used produced the darker hue?

He ran his hands anxiously over his knees. “I dinna like to talk about it.”

She cleared her throat. “They’ll have told you, I suppose, that I was a combat nurse. In France.”

“Aye.”

“I don’t like to talk about it either.”

He held her gaze for a long time. Too long. She felt the rush of blood pooling in a furious blush, coloring her cheeks and neck. When she finally ripped her eyes away, she felt dizzy.

“Can I ask ye a question, Mrs. Randall?”

“Of course.”

“Do ye want him to win?” He asked boldly, looking at her full on.

Her eyes widened his shock. She should’ve rebuked him. He was well over the line and he knew it. But she could not seem to hide from him. Claire Randall was nowhere to be seen.

“I suppose I should. Shouldn’t I?” She finally said, in a small voice. Barely above a whisper.

Fraser nodded as though she’d just confirmed something he’d already suspected.

“I canna imagine the burden ye must feel.” He said in a low, gentle voice that soothed the very marrow in her bones. “I’ll no pretend that I can carry if for ye. But I do hope my presence will ease ye a bit.”

She furrowed her brow, unsure what he meant.

He leaned forward the slightest bit, inclining his head toward. “I took an oath to keep ye safe when I took this post. And I’m no’ one to take oaths lightly. I ken I’ll have to earn yer trust, and I intend to. But ye have my word. No one will harm ye.”

Something about his directness, his lack of pretense, made her skin pulse with electricity. Or maybe it was the whiskey, she couldn’t be sure.

“Will you permit me to ask you one question about your time in the war, Mr. Fraser?”

To her surprise, he didn’t hesitate. “Aye.”

“Were you ever afraid?” She held his gaze, trying to watch his face.

He revealed nothing, his expression cast in unreadable stone. “I was.”

“So was I.” She downed the final swig of whiskey. “When I left France, I promised myself I would never be afraid again.”

He met her eyes with total understanding.

“Ye need no’ be afraid, Mrs. Randall. So long as I’m with you.” His voice was low and gruff.

She couldn’t stop her lips from turning up slightly in a smile. “And when you’re not with me?”

He smirked. “That’s the thing about shadows. Ye may no’ always see them, but they’re never far away.”

Before anything else could be said, the door to the study slammed open and Claire was pulled from the room. Polls in the east were closing and the first results were coming in.

The next few hours passed in a blur.

At five minutes passed eight, Frank received a call from his opponent, Governor Phillip Wylie, conceding the election.

At fifteen minutes passed eight, Walter Cronkite’s grainy image appeared on the television screen, announcing to the world that Franklin Wolverton Randall had been elected 34th President of the United States.

Frank pulled her into his arms, kissing her soundly as the room around them exploded in thunderous applause. Claire rested her hands on Franks chest as he pressed his lips too hard against hers, as though he could’ve been kissing anyone.

Images of the life she had dreamed of when she was small flashed before her eyes. A medical school with a big library where she would learn how to heal the sick. A perfectly pressed white coat she would wear as the doctor she was born to be. A quiet little house in the country, with a garden of her very own.

A glass of champagne was thrust into her hand as Frank made his toast. She stood obligingly by his side, doing her best to watch him adoringly.

A few minutes later, she was hustled into her overcoat. They were off to the victory party at campaign headquarters.

When they stood on the front steps, waiving at the cheering mass of people who had gathered in the street she could feel Fraser’s presence behind her. For some reason, the crowd didn’t seem quite so daunting anymore. Fraser’s hand came down to hover over the small of her back. With a shoulder turned to bare against the masses and an arm stretched out like an iron bar in front of her, he led her safely to the car. The last thing she saw before he closed the car door behind her, was the flashing of camera bulbs glimmering in the blue of his eyes.

It was clear night. As she looked out the window, a beam of light from the full moon cast a ethereal light on the trees that paved the street. Claire found herself enchanted by the fall leaves, a myriad of red, orange and yellow. She smiled to herself, wondering how on earth she’d missed all those colors before.


	2. To The Best Of My Ability

Chapter Two: To The Best of My Ability 

January 20th, 1953

Much to her relief, Claire’s hands shook only a little as she held the bible on which Frank rested his left hand. She felt somehow separate from herself. It was almost as if her brain couldn’t properly process what was happening. When Frank begin to take his oath, his voice sounded far away.

“I Franklin Wolverton Randall do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the office or President of the United States, and will, to the best of my ability, preserve protect and defend the Constitution of the United States, so help me god.”

She was ushered to her seat as Frank began his inaugural address. She caught bits and pieces of the speech she’d heard practiced countless times over the past months. It took every last bit of her strength to sit there in the frigid air and look as happy and as proud as people wanted her to be.

She hadn’t slept the past night nor the one before. She was losing weight and her face was gaunt. Mary Hawkins, Claire’s personal aide, helped Claire with makeup and hair in the mornings. Though the rest of the world had yet to notice that Claire was slowly withering away, Mary was confronted with the fact of it every morning as she helped Claire prepare for the day to come. She never said a word about it, just did her best to hide the shadows under Claire’s eyes and the slight concavity that had appeared beneath her cheekbones. That morning, she had squeezed Claire’s shoulder gently after she’d finished pinning back her hair. Mary was very kind and Claire was grateful for her.

Frank finished his speech and the crowd gathered in front of the U.S. Capitol Building erupted in applause, pulling Claire back to reality. She watched as Frank shook the hands of people gathered around them and wished fervently that she could disappear.

The icy January wind whipped like a leather strap across her face as the masses then turned to descend on her. She was bombarded by a chaotic chorus of “Congratulations Madame First Lady.” She kept the smile plastered on her face, shaking hand after hand after hand, but the rush of faces never ceased.

It was too much. Too many people. She blinked dumbly at the sea of hands reaching out for her, trying to make sense of all the voices demanding her attention. Just when she thought she might scream, an arm looped around her as Fraser pulled her to stand just behind him, putting an arm out.

“Sorry folks, but I have to ask ye to back up.” His voice was polite, but commanding.

The crowd obligingly retreated and Fraser led her to the long caravan of cars waiting at the Capitol Building South Portico. His hand ghosted over the small of her back, and she felt instantly calm for the first time that day. Claire was constantly surrounded by highly trained armed guards. And yet, she only felt truly safe when Fraser was near. She wasn’t sure why.

They hadn’t spoken much since that first night in Frank’s study. It was a most peculiar relationship. They were together almost constantly. She had memorized the solid lines of his back and the rhythmic sound of his steps. She noticed the way he tapped his fingers against his thigh when he was feeling impatient for anxious. But other than that, she knew nothing about him.

Claire often found herself laying awake at night, wishing she could know the secrets he kept locked behind that inscrutable face. She wanted to know his fears, his dreams, his memories. More than anything, she wanted to hear him laugh. She had tried to imagine what it would sound like, but nothing she could conjure to her mind seemed to fit.

Hours later, after the parade and lunch with party leadership, Claire finally took her first steps into the building that would be her home. It was time to dress for the Inaugural Balls. Any number of them were thrown throughout the city to commemorate the occasion. It was customary for the new president to attend more than one. Roosevelt had attended two, Truman three. Frank was insisting that they attend no fewer than six. Frank practically vibrated with excitement. Claire had to force back the bile that was rising in her throat at the thought of the evening ahead.

She felt like a failure. Shouldn’t she be used to this by now? The campaign had been grueling and after election night, things had only gotten worse. They were often running from event to bloody event from dusk ‘til dawn. Claire thought of how her husband never seemed to tire. In fact, he seemed to draw energy from the masses of people and the flurry of constant activity. She felt so bloody weak in comparison.

Everyone always looked at her like she was the luckiest woman in the world. She felt hollow inside, wondering why it wasn’t enough for her. How it was, at the same time, too much for her. She was shown into her bedroom, and wondered what the world would think if they knew she slept alone.

—————-

Jamie stood in the main foyer of the executive residence fiddling with bow tie at his neck. Normally, the Secret Service uniform was very simple. Somber black suit, white oxford shirt, with a simple straight black tie. Since the events tonight were formal, all of the agents were given custom made tuxedos. He felt like a goddamned penguin.

After the parade, Jamie had briefly retired to his quarters in the basement of the residence. It was a simple space with a twin bed, a desk and a chest of drawers. He would have access to the White House gymnasium and swimming pool. All in all, not a bad arrangement. It wasn’t as though he had a life outside of his job anyway.

Once changed and presentable, he took position at the bottom of the staircase, waiting to resume his post at Claire’s side. He’d been waiting only a few minutes when the piece in his ear crackled. “Outlander is moving. Descending stairs, main foyer.”

Jamie turned and suddenly felt as though there was not enough air to breathe. Her dress was black silk, high neck and sleeveless. She wore a pair of elegant white gloves that reached her elbows. Her hair was pinned up in her trademark french twist style. Jamie’s tongue felt suddenly very heavy in his mouth. He wasn’t sure how long he stood there staring at her, but he was sure he couldn’t have stopped on his own.

Thankfully he was pulled from the trance when Agent John Grey appeared at his side.

“Ready, Fraser?”

The only other non-American agent, Grey was assigned to Claire’s detail and quickly became Fraser’s right hand man. He was young and a little green but he worked hard and was unfailingly professional.

Jamie cleared his throat in attempt to resume his authority. “Aye.”

He spoke into his earpiece. “Dalrymple, what’s the status on Orion?”

The voice of Hector Dalrymple, Orion’s shadow, came back through. “Moving now. Heading your way.” 

Seconds later, Orion appeared in the foyer, coming in from one of the adjacent rooms. He was engaged in a conversation with one of his big donors and didn’t even spare Claire a glance as he offered her his arm.

Once they’d approached the caravan waiting outside, Orion left Claire to see the donor safely away. She began fidgeting nervously with her dress, looking self conscious. 

“You look very nice Mrs. Randall.” Jamie said, unable to help himself. 

Claire looked surprised at first, but then a slow shy smile spread across her face. 

Jamie grinned back at her, and opened the car door for her. Just before she stepped in, the strap of her left heel slipped loose. Without missing a beat, Jamie crouched down beside her. He grasped her ankle in his hand delicately, as if he were holding a china doll. With deft fingers, he refastened the strap. Claire’s breath hitched in her throat, a little undone by the feel of his thumb pressing into the flesh of her shin. For the briefest of seconds, she was just Claire, and he was just Jamie. When he stood again, the spell was broken. Once more, he was Agent Fraser, and she was Mrs. Randall. 

“Thank you.” She breathed. 

“Any time.” 

Jamie helped her into the car, hoping to god she didn’t hear the rapid pounding in his chest.

Throughout the evening, Jamie orbited Claire like a moon orbits a planet.  
He moved as she did, keeping is distance in the edges of the room, watching. She was mesmerizing and Jamie soon forgot it was his job to watch her the way that he was.

Soon after they arrived at the first party, Orion pulled Claire to the center of the room for their first dance as President and First Lady. Jamie watched as Claire was turned and pulled about by arms that didn’t hold her close, hands that didn’t seek to comfort her.

The image popped into Jamie’s head before he could stop it. Of him and Claire in a different place in a different time. A place where it was his arms around her, holding her the way she deserved to be held, cherished and close to his heart. A time where he could rest his forehead against hers and whisper the secrets of his soul. He hastily chased the thought away, chastising himself for entertaining such a foolish notion.

When it was time to leave, Jamie automatically took his place at Claire’s side. Her face took on such a startling look of relief that his steps almost faltered. 

“You have impeccable timing, Mr. Fraser.” 

“Oh aye?” 

She nodded. “You always seem to be there when I need you.” 

Her words caught him off guard and all he could do was silently escort her through the crowded room to the cars waiting outside, where they would be whisked off to the next party.

Party two was much the same as the first. A sea of people dressed in expensive clothes, raising crystal champagne glasses as they toasted their new president. Countless pairs of eyes turned on Claire, watching her but not seeing her, men and women swarming around her, demanding her attention. She was one half of the fantasy they’d watched from afar for so long, and now that they had her up close, it was like they wanted to rip her a part and keep pieces of her for themselves.

It wasn’t lost on Jamie that, in many ways, the people demanded more of Claire than they did of Frank. Frank was a politician, he was allowed to be complex, expected to be human. Frank was a man of the people. But Claire was the fairytale. She had to be perfect, she had to be the living embodiment of an entire nation’s day dream.

More, they wanted, more, more, it was never enough.

Once Orion had worked the room to his satisfaction, they once again took their leave. Jamie felt a clench in his wame when he noticed the small shimmer of sweat on Claire’s upper lip. He knew she hadn’t been eating, hadn’t been sleeping. The life was literally being sucked out of her and Jamie felt suddenly desperate. He forced himself to calm down, reminding himself that it was his job to be here for her. He needed to focus. 

To Jamie’s despair, their stops at the next parties only got longer.

After the third party, he noticed the corner of her mouth spasming slightly, probably from smiling so much. After the fourth party, he felt her tremble as he helped her into the car.

“Are ye alright?” He asked, eyes searching her face.

She pressed her lips into a faint smile. “I’m fine, just a little tired. Thank you.” 

After the fifth party, her eyes had almost completely glassed over and Jamie would have given anything to take her away to somewhere she could rest. Somewhere she could finally have peace.

When they arrived at the sixth party, he steeled himself before opening her car door. She put her hand in his as he helped her out and he felt his throat tighten when he saw the lines of exhausted resolve on her face.

Jamie fell into step just behind her as they moved towards the entrance. He felt his heartbeat heavy in his chest, the rhythm a desperate echo of the words he longed to whisper in her ear. 

One more, a nighean. One more. You can do this, I know you can. You are so strong. So brave. I am in awe of you…

Instead, he simply opened the door for her, leaning in just close enough so she could hear him. “One more, Mrs. Randall.”

Her answering smile was more real than any other he’d seen on her face that night, but it still didn’t reach her eyes.Orion escorted her into the crowd and Jamie took his place in the shadows. Watching. Always watching. 

To the rest of the world she was the luckiest woman in the world, glamorous and worry free with a husband who loved her. Jamie had come to know her in a way that the prying eyes of the world could not. He knew her body language, he could interpret the subtle shift of her muscles as she moved, the way her mouth curved up in a smile she didn’t mean. He felt oddly privileged by it. To know her that way. And cursed. He could see her suffering so clearly for what it was and he could do nothing to ease it. For a moment he thought maybe he couldn’t bare it.

A fierce anger burned through him for the man who could and should have been by her side, supporting her, giving her comfort. Instead, Orion left Claire behind to fend for herself as he wandered off to tend greener pastures.

Jamie watched as Orion moved with ease about the room, shaking hands and laughing, totally unbothered. It was easy for Orion, for his family. This life was natural to them. Did he not see how much it strained her? How hard she had to work to play this part? Did he not see that she was giving herself away bit by agonizing bit just so she could fit into this life that he had forced her to live?

Jamie’s hands shook with the effort to stay away. He was painfully aware of the minutes passing by. Even from this distance, he could see the weary sag in her shoulders. God, she was just so tired.

Just when he thought he might march over and drag Claire out of the party, a crackling in his earpiece alerted him that they were preparing to make an exit. He had to stop himself from heaving a sigh of relief.

When the pulled up the entrance of the residence, Jamie was immediately at Claire’s door, helping her out of the car. Jamie was surprised when Dalrymple did not do the same for Orion. Instead, Hector came to Jamie’s side to whisper in his ear.

“We’re just here to drop off Outlander. Orion is heading off to a private party downtown.”

Jamie just nodded. Thin lipped. The bastard hauled her around all night until she was practically dead on her feet, and now he couldn’t even be bothered to see his wife inside? Jamie was seething, suddenly wanting very much to hit something. Instead, he only followed Claire into the White House.

He walked just behind her, watching her move like a zombie, her heavy footfalls echoing through the empty halls. The irony wasn’t lost on Jamie. A building that was known and revered throughout the world, turned out to be nothing more than a prison draped in decadence and ensconced in tradition.

He escorted her to the sitting room that was connected to her bedroom. It broke his heart to think of leaving her alone in such a cold place, when she so clearly needed to be held. He didn’t like the idea of her sleeping alone, so lost and so vulnerable. But Mr. and Mrs. Randall would not share a bed in the White House.

He opened the door to the bedroom and ushered her in.

“Will ye be needing anything else, ma’am?” He asked softly.

“No.” She said in raspy voice barely above a whisper.

Jamie swallowed hard. “Goodnight, Mrs. Randall.” 

 

With limbs that felt like they weighed a thousand tons, Jamie shut the door gently behind him and walked away. He’d not made it ten feet when he heard a loud crash coming from Claire’s room. He was back at the door in an instant.

“Mrs. Randall?” He said pounding on the door. “Are ye alright?”

There was no answer and Jamie didn’t waste anymore time. He slammed the door open and the sight before him almost made his knees buckle.

Claire was on the floor, sobbing hysterically, arms wrapped tightly around herself. Jamie fell to his knees at her side.

“Mrs. Randall?” He said frantically, taking her face, trying to get her to look at him. “Mrs. Randall, please are ye alright? Are ye hurt?”

Claire’s eyes were at once both wild and utterly forlorn. She started to hyperventilate, clawing at her dress.

“Off! I need it off please!” She was writhing, desperately pawing around at the back of the dress. “Please help me I can’t bear it! Please I need it off! Off!!”

Unsure of what else to do Jamie reached around and pulled the zipper of her dress down. She began to breathe a little easier as she wriggled out of it. She sat on her knees before him, wearing nothing but a white slip. Before Jamie could do anything else, she collapsed into a ball on her side and began to cry again.

This time, Jamie didn’t think. He pulled her into his lap and tucked her head underneath his chin and began to rock her soothingly. He could feel the marks the dress had left on her back through the fabric of her slip. She fisted her hands into the front of his shirt and pressed her head into his chest, and began to cry even harder. 

Oh, the things he wanted to say to her. He wanted to tell her that he was there for her, that he would always be there for her. He wanted to tell her that she haunted his thoughts, both sleeping and waking. He wanted to tell her everything, anything, that would take her pain away. She could have all of him, every last bit, if it would ease her.

Instead he only held her tighter, rocking gently until the crying slowly stopped. Once she had gone mostly quiet in his arms, he spoke quietly into his earpiece.

“Grey. Get Mary Hawkins. I need her in Outlander’s bedroom, stat.”

Two minutes later, Mary appeared in the doorway, eyes wide with concern as she took in the sight of Jamie holding a despondent Claire. Jamie just shook his head and Mary understood. Without saying a word, she gently reached down and helped Claire off of Jamie’s lap and on to her feet. 

 

Jamie stood with his back turned as Mary helped Claire slip into a nightgown. He turned to see Claire at her dressing table as Mary let Claire’s hair down and took off her makeup. Jamie had to swallow a lump in his throat. He had never seen her this way, hair down, face bare. She was so beautiful Jamie could scarcely stand it.

Once she had finished, Mary squeezed Claire’s shoulder gently and made to leave.

“Thank you, Mary.” Jamie said to her as she passed. Mary simply nodded to him in response, and left.

Jamie turned his attention back to Claire. She was looking at him now for the first time since he’d found her on the floor. Her eyes were tight with sorrow and shame.

“I’m sorry…” She said in a high soft voice that once again sent Jamie’s heart to the floor.

He shook his head fiercely and walked over to her, helping her to stand.

“Don’t ye dare be sorry. Do ye hear me?”

She bit her lip and nodded, allowing him to help her over to the bed. All pretense with propriety momentarily forgotten, Jamie eased the duvet down as Claire climbed in, bringing it back up around her once she was settled, tucking her in tenderly.

“Sleep now, Mrs. Randall.”

“Hmm, if you insist.” She replied groggily.

———–

Somewhere in the haze, Claire finally heard the sound she’d been dreaming of for months. His laughter was deep, rumbling, exuberant and joyful. Her last clear thought before slipping into oblivion was that it was a sound she wanted to hear everyday for the rest of her life.


	3. Discretion

January 21, 1953 

Claire paced around her sitting room, taking deep breaths, steeling herself for her first day as First Lady. Her head was mostly clear this morning. She’d slept hard and all the way through the night without waking once, something she hadn’t done in months. She risked a glance in the mirror. She was pleased to see that her face looked somewhat less haggard and the lines of exhaustion had eased a bit. Just a bit. 

She felt a little more in control now. Put together. Dressed for the day in a white tie-neck blouse and a dark green knee length skirt. 

She knew he was out there. Waiting. She knew he wouldn’t say a word, knew he would act as though she had not had a complete nervous breakdown the night before. She couldn’t decide if she appreciated that or if it made her want to set the building on fire. Finally, resigned to the fact that she couldn’t very well hide in her sitting room all day, she stepped out into the hall. 

He was there, of course, just next to her door. 

“Good Morning, Mr. Fraser.” She said primly. 

“Good Morning Mrs. Randall.” His voice was as even and professional as always. 

She held her head high and set off down the hall. WIth every step she was aware of his presence just behind her. The memory of the night before hung in the air like smog. Halfway down the hall she came to the conclusion that she had to address it. No help for it. 

She stopped and turned to him.

“Mr. Fraser, may I have a word?” 

“Of course, ma’am.” 

Claire nodded and took a deep breath. “I would like to apologize for my…. episode last night. I truly don’t know what came over-” 

Much to her surprise, Fraser cut her off. “As I told ye last night, ye have nothing to be sorry for.” 

In truth, she would have expected any one in his position to say that. But the way Fraser said it- his eyes meeting hers in earnest, mask lifting just a bit- let her know that he meant it. At first she didn’t know what to say. 

“Well…” She began, trying to find her footing. “You must at least allow me to extend my thanks. I very much appreciate the kindness you showed me. I’ll not soon forget it.” 

This time it was Fraser’s turn to search for words. 

“Of course, ma’am.” He finally said. 

She nodded with some finality, satisfied that the matter was addressed and settled. And so it was, that with a firm set to her shoulders and a clear mind, that First Lady Claire Randall began her day. 

******

As the weeks passed, Claire slowly settled in her new home. Naturally predisposed to make the best of any situation, Claire endeavored to search for and make note of the all the positives that filled her daily life. 

There was Aloysius Murphy, the White House chef. A little rough around the edges at first, he soon revealed his softer side, taking care that a pot of tea (loose leaf, the way Claire liked it) was waiting, hot and fresh at least twice a day. Once in the morning for breakfast, and once in the afternoon at the traditional tea time. 

Her schedule was often punishing, filled to the brim with various events, but in the rare quiet moments she indulged in the treasures of the White House library, losing herself in the endless volumes to be found there. 

The best part though, as she admitted to herself, in her more honest moments, was James Fraser. As the time went by, she found herself more and more at ease around him. Up until now, their interactions had been mostly silent, words only ever uttered between them when necessary. 

As the days passed on she couldn’t help but want to talk to him. She told herself that such an urge was normal. They were, in fact, around each other all the time. Her desire to speak with him was merely the result of prolonged close contact. No harm in acting on that. 

******

February 11th, 1953 

One evening she finally bit the bullet. They had just returned to the residence in the middle of a downpour. 

“Do you enjoy the rain, Mr. Fraser?” She asked, turning her head just slightly in the direction where he was in step behind her. 

“Ma’am?” He replied, caught off guard by her sudden inquiry. 

“Being from Scotland, I mean.” She explained. “This weather must remind you of home.” 

He chuckled warmly and Claire resolutely ignored the tingling feeling in her toes. 

“Aye, well it does rain o’er much back home. Though it’s scarce so much a downpour like this, more like a constant drizzle.” 

“Do you miss it?” She asked, hoping she wasn’t pushing her boundaries. 

“Sometimes.” He said, smiling wistfully. 

She stayed silent, waiting to see if he would say anything else. He did. 

“Did it rain much where you grew up?” He asked, tentatively, clearly unsure if he was correct in interpreting her questions as an invitation for conversation.

She smiled encouragingly as they made there way up the stairs to the private apartments. 

“Well I grew up in all sorts of places, but some of them were certainly rainier than others!” 

And so it was that she told him of her childhood growing up with her Uncle Lamb. How he had been a Professor with a hunger for research, how they had bounced from place to place, university to university, chasing the resources he needed to complete his various projects. She told him how Teddy Randall’s offer to provide Lamb with whatever resources he needed, as well as handsome pay, in exchange for his services as tutor to the Randall children, had brought them to Boston when she was eleven. 

In turn he told her of his childhood growing up in the Scottish Highlands. How he had played and roughed about with his sister and best friend at their family estate, a place called Lallybroch. What would it be like to see him there, she wondered? She’d only ever seen him in his capacity as a Secret Service agent, dressed in somber black, his hair neatly slicked down on his head. She allowed herself, for a moment, to imagine him back at his home. What would he wear on a day working out in the fields? She imagined a t-shirt that clung to his skin with the sweat of a hard day’s labour. She relished in the thought of his biceps working under the thing cotton. More than anything, though, she was positively enamored with the imagined vision of his ungelled hair, curling freely around his ears and at the nape of his neck. 

More time passed and everyday Claire found herself hungrier for the sound of his voice than she had been the day before. 

 

******

February 22nd, 1953 

One afternoon, faced with an unexpected bit of free time, Claire wandered over to the library. She glanced along the shelves, running a finger lazily over the spines of the neatly stacked books. Fraser stood by the door. 

“What’s your pleasure then, Mr. Fraser?” She said, turning to look at him. 

He quirked a brow at her. She gestured at the shelves that surrounded the room. 

“Surely there must be a favorite or two of yours in here. I would hate to think that the White House library failed to measure up to your literary standards.” She said teasingly. 

He smirked at her and slowly made his way over to the shelves. He scanned the titles thoughtfully and Claire indulged in the rare opportunity to watch his face. His blue eyes narrowed, his jaw working as he considered. Finally, he reached up and pulled one of the newer editions down from it’s shelf. He handed it to her, wordless. 

“Really?” She said, looking down at the book in my head. 

“Aye.” He responded, smirking. 

The book he’d chosen was “To Have And Have Not” by Ernest Hemingway. An American author. James Fraser was full of surprises. Feeling suddenly bold, she smiled back at him. 

“I’m afraid I’ve misplaced my reading glasses,” Claire was terribly farsighted. She handed the book back to him. “Would you mind?” 

She didn’t wait for him to answer, just dropped the book in his hand and trotted merrily over to one of the overstuffed armchairs in front of the fireplace. She sat, waiting patiently. Jamie hesitated for only second before coming to join her, taking his place in the chair across from hers. She was reminded of the first night they’d met. 

Jamie cleared his throat and began reading. 

“You know how it is there early in the morning in Havana with the bums still asleep against the walls of the buildings; before even the ice wagons come by with ice for the bars?”

Claire smiled to herself, and got lost in the soothing rumble of his voice. She eyed her reading glasses, sitting in the shadows on the desk just behind him. She hoped he didn’t notice. 

After that afternoon in the library, what was before merely a professional relationship forged out of necessity, began to slowly warm into something resembling true friendship. She always initiated their little conversations and she understood why it had to be that way. He likely felt it was up to her to set the tone of the air between them. 

******

March 1st, 1953 

It was a morning like any other. She stepped out of her sitting room and Fraser was there as always. 

“Good Morning, Mr. Fraser.” 

“Good Morning, Mrs. Randall.” 

She set off down the hall and he fell into step behind her. She was about to inquire as to how his morning had been thus far when he surprised her by speaking first.

“Excuse me Mrs. Randall, can I have a wee word wi’ ye?” 

She stopped and turned to him. “Of course.” 

He looked nervous. “I apologize if I’m crossing a line here but… well.. I..” 

She furrowed her brow. “Yes?” 

He took a deep breath and reached inside his jacket, grabbing something from his breast pocket. He handed it to her. 

It was a book.“The Memoirs of Louisa Adams: America’s English First Lady.” 

She looked at Jamie, stunned. He was looking at the ground, a blush flaming furiously across his face. 

“I thought.. Well I just thought ye might find it interesting. She was from England like ye.” He looked up at her through his eyelashes. “I can’t imagine how lonely this job must be for ye. I thought this might make ye feel less alone. Like ye have a lead to follow.” 

“Thank you, Mr. Fraser. Truly. This is…” She began, her throat tightening with emotion. “The nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.” 

She was so touched she couldn’t stop herself from leaning in to give him a quick peck on the cheek. Thought he still blushed, Jamie positively beamed at her, pleased that she’d like his gift. Emboldened by her reaction, he spoke more directly now. 

“If ye’ll permit me ma’am I’d just like to say…” He cleared his throat. “I think- well, ye are an exceptional woman Mrs. Randall. If ye can find a way to take on this roll on yer own terms- find a way to make it yours, I mean- well, then there’ll be no limit to the good ye can do.” 

Jamie’s words rang in Claire’s ears throughout the rest of that day and into the next. She’d never considered it before. She’d always thought that she was just here to play a part in a grand symphony orchestrated by Frank and his advisors. It never occurred to her that she could use her position to do something meaningful. Until now. 

The next morning she went straight to the office of her Chief of Staff. Hiring Geillis Duncan had been a controversial decision. Not only was she Scottish- yet another foreign born White House staff member- but she was also, of course, a woman. Claire had liked her the moment she met her. Hiring Geillis was the one thing she’d been absolutely insistent on. Frank hadn’t resisted much, thinking it made him look edgy. Once his advisors were assured that no one could care less about who was in charge of the various tea parties and social functions that took up most of Claire’s schedule, Geillis was offered the job. 

That morning Claire told Geillis what she wanted and the Scot made it happen. In the following weeks, Claire spent her time visiting homeless shelters, orphanages, and anywhere else she could go with her detail in tow. Her favorite places to visit were the hospitals. Maybe she couldn’t be a doctor and heal the sick, but she could visit them and ease their suffering a bit. 

Before, she hadn’t understood how she could bring such joy with just her presence in a place full of people that didn’t even know her. But now she saw that it didn’t matter how or why. It mattered that she could. And she did. 

Fraser was there, of course, just behind her every step of the way. Beaming with something that looked an awful lot like pride. The thought made Claire positively giddy. Maybe she could do this. 

******

March 20th, 1953 

They were returning from one of Claire’s now weekly visits to the area hospitals and Claire was in a good mood. They were well ahead of schedule, something that almost never happened. They were making their way across the landing on the second floor of the residence when she Jamie froze in place behind her. She turned to look back at him, quirking a brow in inquiry. He was listening to something in his earpiece. 

“Um.. Mrs. Randall…” He began, looking almost sick. 

He didn’t finish. Instead, he grabbed her without warning, pulling her into a hall closet. Claire was about to ask him what the bloody hell he was about, when she heard them. 

It was Frank’s voice, decadent and charming, mixing with a much higher, feminine voice. She heard them more clearly as they made there way past her and Jamie’s hiding spot. 

“I’m sorry we had to cut our visit short.” Frank crooned. “She wasn’t supposed to be home for hours.” 

“We’ll just make up for it next time then.” Came the sultry reply. 

By the time the sound of them had disappeared down the hall Claire was shaking. For a long moment, they just stood there in the closet, neither of them moving. Humiliation was not an adequate word to describe what Claire was feeling. 

Finally, she spoke. “I would like to go to my room now, please.” She said, through gritted teeth. 

Wordlessly, he reached around her and opened the door. They walked to her rooms in silent. Jamie opened the door to her sitting room and Claire stepped in. When he made to close the door behind her, Claire caught it with her hand, keeping it open. 

“Will you talk with me a moment?” She said, not looking at him. 

Jamie swallowed and nodded silently, before entering. 

He spoke into his earpiece. “Grey.” 

A second later John Grey’s voice was in his ear. “I’m here.” 

“Stand post outside Outlander’s door.” 

Jamie was barely listening as Grey acknowledged the order. He watched Claire as she made her way to the drink cart in the corner. She gestured to the sitting area. 

“Please sit.” 

He took a seat in one of the arm chairs. Claire returned a minute later with two glasses of whiskey. Jamie started to protest. 

“Just this once. I won’t tell. Besides, Grey’s outside. You’re not technically on duty.” She held out the glass. “Please?” 

He caved and took the glass. She sat on the sofa across from him. He sipped in silence, waiting for her to speak. 

“I know about the women.” She finally said. “I’ve always known. I hope you don’t think I’m an idiot who-”

Jamie cut her off, stunned. “I would never think such a thing Mrs. Randall.” 

She nodded, and then paused, considering what she would say next. 

“Did you know about them? Before today I mean.” 

He shook his head firmly. “No.” 

They were quiet for a long while. 

“I feel like my life is slipping away from me.” She said quietly, unable to stop herself from sharing her secrets with him. “I don’t know what to do.” 

“Considering I’m not on duty.” He said holding up his glas. “Would ye permit me to speak freely for a moment?” 

She nodded her assent. She wanted him to always speak freely to her. 

“As crass as this may sound, ye have to realize that ye have a rather… strong bit o’ leverage here. Ye might use that to make him give ye something ye want. Ye could maybe take back a piece of yer life.”

Claire just blinked at him for a moment, wholly taken aback. 

“I hope I didna offend ye.” Fraser said, looking suddenly worried. 

“No not at all!” Claire said giggling. “It’s just… well I never pegged you for the devious type Mr. Fraser.” 

He grinned at her. “I suppose I’m full of surprises.”

“I suppose you are.” 

Silence fell between them again for a time. 

“How did you know they were coming?” Claire asked, suddenly curious. 

“Agent Foster came o’er my ear piece saying that ‘Orion had a visitor’ and that I should remove ye from the immediate vicinity as quickly as possible.” 

“You certainly took that suggestion literally.” She chuckled a little despite herself, remembering how he had all but thrown her into the closet. 

Jamie’s ears turned slightly pink. “I’m sorry for that, I-”

“No.” Claire said, putting a hand up to quiet him. “No, actually, I wanted to thank you.”

Jamie furrowed his brow. “Thank me?”

“Yes. Just because I know about the women doesn’t mean I want to see them. I appreciate you protecting me from… well, from a rather uncomfortable situation.” 

He met her gaze full on, “As I told ye the night we met,” He began, “I dinna take oaths lightly.” 

Later that night, Claire was having a rare dinner alone with Frank. They ate in silence mostly and Claire thought a lot about her talk with Fraser earlier that day. She stiffened her spine. 

“Frank.” She said. 

“Hmmm?” He said, not looking up at her. 

A few minutes later he was looking at her with eyes as wide as the dinner plates in front of them. 

“You want a what?”

“You heard me.” She said, holding her ground. “I want a place of my own. Somewhere I can go to get away. Not all the time, just every now and then. On weekends, and the like. Somewhere I can relax, maybe start a garden. And you can stay here and....” 

She let her voice trail off suggestively and took a sip of her wine.

“Do.. whatever it is that you do.” 

Franks eyebrows shot up. Claire held his gaze, determined, as he sized her up. 

“People might talk. Rumors-”

Claire cut him off. “I don’t care. I need this.” 

Her tone made it very clear exactly what she meant. Frank sighed, resigned. 

He stood from his place at the table. “Fine.” He said, and was gone. 

*****

March 21, 1952 

James Fraser had fought in a war. He had been captured, beaten, tortured, starved. He had come face to face with men with souls blacker than the dead of night. And yet he had never, not once, regarded any one with as much disgust, nor as much unmitigated contempt as he did Frank Randall. 

Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew that his feelings were colored at least in part by his affection for Claire. Her friendship was a wonderful, if unexpected, consequence of his employment. He respected her and had come to care for her deeply. Every day she said something that surprised him. She was quick tongued with a sharp wit. Jamie would have gladly spent every minute of the day talking with her, just for the pleasure of hearing her voice. 

He hadn’t known about the women before the incident on the landing, though he had suspected. Honestly, he just couldn’t see how a man with a wife like Claire would waste his time in the company of other women. 

That morning, he used a little of his personal time to talk to some of the men assigned to Frank’s detail. If he could spare Claire any further exposure to Frank’s wickedness, he would. 

First, he spoke with Jeremy Foster, the agent who had warned him of Frank and his ‘visitor.’ He beat around the subject for a time, but Foster was an experienced agent and wouldn’t budge. Jamie’s next targets were Rupert Mackenzie and Angus Mhor. The newest agents on Frank’s detail, who would surely spill their secrets to Jamie with a little prodding. 

He was deterred from his mission though when he was summoned to Geillis Duncan’s office. Geillis was still knew in her position as Claire’s Chief of Staff but it was already abundantly clear that she was wholly devoted to the First Lady. Jamie liked her. And not just because she was a fellow Scot. 

Once in her office, Geillis filled him in on Claire’s request. 

“Obviously, our options here are limited, for security reasons. I thought wha’ w’i ye being head of Mrs. Randall’s detail, it might be best if ye handled this matter.” 

Jamie spent the rest of his personal time making phone calls. Forty-five minutes later, he’d found the perfect place. 

Claire’s face flushed with excitement as he told her about the large estate he’d found hidden away in the North Carolina mountains. 

“It’s verra private.” He told her. “With tons of trees and plenty of space for a wee garden. Or two.” 

“When can we go?” She asked excitedly. 

“Mr. Randall’s lawyers are handling the purchase now.” Jamie explained. “Ms. Duncan told me we should be able to pop over for a wee visit, sometime next month. After the Paris trip.” 

Claire nodded, absorbing this. He could see the excited visions playing out in her eyes. 

“Does it have a name? This place I mean.” 

“Aye.” He said smiling. “They call it the Ridge.”


	4. The Man Who Accompanied Mrs. Randall To Paris

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I posted this longer chapter in three parts on tumblr, decided to just post it all in one place here.

Not long after she married Frank, Claire stopped dreaming. Not in the figurative sense (though she’d certainly stopped that too), but she quite literally no longer dreamed while she slept at night.

Until now.

Dreams started coming again after Jamie had told her about the place he’d found for her. A place just for her. The Ridge.

Claire dreamed about mountains, and she could feel the air, cool and crisp as it filled her lungs. God, she couldn’t wait to breathe again.

Blurry for so long, the world was finally starting to come back into focus. A world of her own. A piece of her life back. Freedom.

She dreamed of the garden she would start and of dirt underneath her fingernails.

She dreamed of quiet nights spent by a roaring fire with nothing other than a good book and quiet company.

More than anything, she dreamt of Jamie.

April 10th, 1953

She woke suddenly, coming to the surface of consciousness with a start, her chest heaving, and her skin soaked with sweat. Her cheeks were flushed, and she could still feel the rippling of sensation echoing across her flesh.

The stubble of Jamie’s chin against her skin. The sound of his breathing…

She squeezed her eyes shut, gasping for air.

After a few minutes, she sat up, blinking at the room around her in a attempt to get her bearings. A large canopy bed and a pale blue duvet. The plushy white carpet that always felt to soft beneath her toes. Her antique dressing table in the corner. Two large windows that took up most of the wall but still somehow never managed to let in enough sunlight. Awareness washed over her. She was in her room at the White House.

She listened to her heartbeat, images from the dream that she had woken from flashing in her mind. Not again, she thought, groaning internally. This made the third time this week.

In general, Claire did not consider herself a particularly sexual person. Her experience had been limited. Very limited. In her life, she’d only ever slept with one man.

It had been nice in the beginning, she supposed. She’d enjoyed the intimacy - or at least, what she thought was intimacy -, though she couldn’t quite see just what the fuss was all about. As time went on, Frank slowly gave up on his feeble attempts to give her some small amount of pleasure. Claire didn’t mind it. In a way she considered it her wifely duty, but she never actively sought it out. And, after a time, neither did he.

But then she met Jamie Fraser. The attraction had been instant. She wasn’t in the habit of denying the truth, and she wasn’t blind. Fraser was a handsome man. The more time they spent together, the more her body felt at ease with him. She was drawn to him in a way that went beyond logic.

She told herself it was normal. Only natural, really. What with a man and woman spending so much time in such close contact, a little attraction was to be expected. And yet, so often, she wondered if this went beyond simple attraction. She had never yearned for anyone before, but she was sure that the churning in her blood that she felt when ever he was near had to be close. It felt primal. Bone deep.

As lackluster as her sex life with Frank was, she somehow knew that sharing a bed with Jamie would be anything but. When she looked at him she saw calloused hands that could work her body into an endless pulsing frenzy, and soft lips that she could almost feel, warm and reverent on her skin.

Frank had never truly satisfied her, physically or emotionally, that she knew. Why did she think it would be any different with Jamie? Perhaps because even in their early days of courting, Frank had never been nearly as thoughtful, nor as attentive to her needs and feelings as Jamie was. She smiled, looking at the copy of Louisa Adams memoirs sitting on her nightstand (she always had it with her). She could be married to Frank 100 years and it would never even occur to him to give her such a thing.

It was more than that though. It was the way Jamie looked at her, always watching, always seeing her and not First Lady Claire Randall. It was the way he touched her as he helped her out of a car or lead her through a crowded room- with extreme gentleness and the promise of boundless strength.

She wanted him in a way she had never wanted anyone. She wanted to whisper her secrets to him in the dark as their heads lay close together on one pillow. She wanted to sleep in his arms and wake to the light of the morning igniting the flaming red of his hair.

How could she crave sensations she had never felt? How could she ache for arms that had never held her?

Whatever the feeling, she was sure it would pass. It had too. No other option could even be considered..

But In the meantime, there was no harm in indulging in a little harmless fantasy that nobody would know about. It wasn’t as though she could control her dreams after all.

It was no wonder, really, she thought in an effort to reason with herself. Deprived of intimacy as she was. Though she didn’t particularly enjoy sex, strictly in the pleasurable sense, she was human after all. Physical contact was a basic biological need.

She and Frank had essentially given up on children. And since conception was their primary motive for intercourse, it had been some time since anyone had held her, or even touched her.

Claire sighed, thinking of a baby with round cheeks and tiny pink fingers. The baby she would never hold. She had no blood family left of her own. The Randalls had been a family to her, but none of them had her Mother’s curly hair or her Father’s whiskey eyes. The gifts they had given to her, written into her very DNA, were all she had left of them. She wanted nothing more than to give that to someone else. A child of her own.

She couldn’t seem to make one and she had no idea why. For years, she had begged Frank to arrange for them both to see a specialist, to try and isolate the problem. But he had refused, saying that he’d already thought of it and had himself checked. The doctor had declared him to be perfectly capable of fathering children. Whatever the trouble, it was her problem and clearly not treatable.

She turned her thoughts back to the Ridge, envisioning the garden she would create, listing in her head what she would plant first. Lemon Balm. Peppermint. Sweet alyssum. Perhaps she would ask Mary to look into acquiring seeds for Scottish thistle…

Her eyes wandered over to the corner of her bedroom where her expensive designer suitcases were stacked together in a neat row.

Paris. Bollocks. The Ridge would have to wait.

******

Out of the many number of many perks and privileges that came with Claire’s position, Air Force One was by far the most luxurious. It was a beautiful state of the art airplane that rode beautifully.

The trip over to France for Frank’s first official state visit as President had been perfectly pleasant. All the more so due to Jamie’s acute air sickness, the result of which was him allowing Claire to dab gently at his sweaty brow with a cool cloth in the privacy of her tiny office on board.

The President’s accommodations in Paris had been arranged by the French government. They would be staying in a large manor house in the city center. 

When they pulled up at the house, it did not take her long to realize that the field hospital, that last one she served in during the war, had been only blocks away. She didn’t think of the war often. She couldn’t. Her courtship with Frank began shortly after her homecoming and she’d instantly been thrown in to his world of glamour and power. It was a welcome distraction. At the time.

She looked at the street around her and visions of her time here came flooding back. The constant shelling, the crash of artillery, the gunfire that seemed to never stop. The fighting was never far away. She could still hear the screaming of those unlucky souls who had been forced to suffer amputations on a week when anesthetic was in short supply. She could still see the life fading from the eyes of soldiers who had died in her arms. Too young. They had all been too damn young.

She shuddered and pushed the memories firmly away. Perhaps she would think of the war again someday, but now was not the time.

Soon after they’d settled, Claire was informed of the arrival of Louise de La Tour, wife of the French Ambassador who had traveled with them from the States for the occasion. The ladies sat briefly for tea, before wandering out to the house gardens to enjoy the sunshine.

They strolled leisurely along, Jamie keeping a respectful distance behind them. Claire did not miss the way Louise’s gaze frequently rested on Jamie. Nor did she miss the faint clench in her gut every time Louise’s eyes wandered in his direction.

“How fortunate you are indeed, Madame. Such a charming husband, and such pretty things to look at… “ She said, subtly nodding her head, gesturing the space where Jamie walked behind them.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” Claire said primly.

“Your Scot! He is positively delectable.” Louise said, practically drooling.

Claire’s jaw tightened. “Louise, really, he is not my Scot and I don’t think he would appreciate-”

“Do you think you might be able to make a small change to the Secret Service uniform? You know what they say about what Scotsmen wear under their kilts…”

“Louise-”

Louise just giggled and ignored Claire. “Or maybe we take him somewhere tropical, no? We could get him into a skimpy swimsuit, I bet he’d look absolutely-”

“Louise!” She rebuked in a loud whisper. “Mr. Fraser is not a cabana boy! He is an agent with the United States Secret Service and I’ll thank you to show him the respect he deserves.”

Louise eyes widened, taken aback by Claire’s outburst. “Oui, Madame, I beg your pardon. I meant no offense.”

Claire felt the burning in her cheeks. In truth, she was just as surprised by her response as Louise.

“Of course not, I apologize for being so cross.” She said contritely. “I think the journey has affected me more than I realized. I suppose I’ll need a nap before dinner. Wouldn’t do for me to bite De Gaulle’s head off, would it?” She joked, trying to lighten the mood.

A little later, Claire lay in the dark in the room she had been allotted. The afternoon sunlight was peeking through the drawn curtains, casting a gray hue about the room. Her nose tickled from the scent of the gardenias that had been left on the chest of drawers. She didn’t particularly care for gardenias. Much to fragrant.

She thought back on her conversation with Louise. What on earth had come over her? Sure, Louise could be bawdy. But Claire knew her well, and knew she meant no harm by it.

Over the course of the time they’d spent together, Claire had come to discover that James Fraser was a remarkable man in more ways than one. Not only was he kind, passionate, and honorable to a fault, he was also by far the most intelligent man she’d ever met. Smarter by far than any of the men who worked in the White House where he stood guard. Claire just hated the way people ignored him and pretended he wasn’t there. She knew it was foolish to feel that way, that it was his job to be her invisible protector, but she couldn’t help it.

Surely the way Louise had spoken of him, as though he were nothing more than a piece of meat to be ogled at and ordered about at whim, had brought all those frustrations to the surface.

Claire had to laugh at herself. It was his job to protect her, not the other way around.

But in truth, that wasn’t the only reason she’d snapped at Louise; it wasn’t even the main one. In fact, Claire had felt only thing in that moment. Pure, unabashed possessiveness. And that, surely, would not do at all.

Clare’s legs began to ache with the urge to rise and find Jamie. To fling open the gates of her soul and mind and beg him to make sense of her, seeing as she couldn’t manage to do that herself.

Instead she closed her eyes and let herself go, drifting, searching, until she found him once more in her dreams.

April 11th, 1953

Perfectly unsettled as she was by her discussion with Louise in the gardens, Claire indulged just a bit more in the delicious French wine than she normally would have. Not too much, mind. But enough to loosen her tongue, without dulling her wits.

In fact, one might say Claire Randall absolutely shone as she sat between Frank and Charles de Gaulle, the French President hosting them that evening for a State Dinner. She wore a strapless red dress with white gloves that reached her upper arms, and earrings that glistened next to her cheeks like tear drops.

Claire loved Paris. Before the war, she had had nothing but fond memories there. She spoke French flawlessly, and De Gaulle was utterly besotted.

They chatted easily in French throughout the meal, a fact that had Frank pulsing with jealousy beside her. It wasn’t just that he had been deprived of his usual position as belle of the ball, it was also the fact that Claire had De Gaulle, the one deer in the woods that Orion had never been able to catch, eating out of the palm of her hand.

De Gaulle had a well known disdain for Frank. A giant in world politics, De Gualle had rubbed elbows with the likes of Roosevelt and Churchill and had little patience for Frank’s proclivity towards flashy glamour over traditional statesmen-ship. During Frank’s campaign, De Gualle had been more than vocal in the press concerning what he perceived to be Frank’s shortcomings. To put it simply, he found him to be ostentatious, and lacking totally in substance.

Of course, now, the campaign was over and bygones were bygones. Presidents Randall and De Gualle were now two major players on the world stage and, like it or not, would be forced to form some sort of constructive working relationship. That didn’t mean De Gualle was going to make it easy for him.

Frank spent the first course of the meal, talking over Claire, leaning across her soup bowl, trying in vain to impress De Gaulle with his pitiful grasp of the French language.

“Il faut me savoir ce vin d’où il est!” Frank smirked, clearly impressed with himself.

Claire was fairly certain Frank was trying to ask about the wine. But his wording was so nonsensical, she really couldn’t be sure.

Not comprehending Frank’s incoherent ramblings, De Gaulle turned to Claire.

“Dites moi, Mme Randall, est-ce que votre mari se sens mal?” (Excuse me, Mrs. Randall, but is your husband feeling ill?)

Claire had to stifle a laugh. “Non, je pense qu’il essaie juste de vous demandez d’où vient ce bon vin.” (No, I think he’s trying to ask you where you got this delightful wine.)

De Gaulle raised his brows, and looked back to Frank, switching to English.

“It’s from a vineyard in the country. My friends and I are frequent visitors. You must allow me to send your lovely wife home with a few bottles.”

If Frank had caught the slight jab in De Gaulle’s statement, he didn’t show it. His face remained perfectly impassive- forever the consummate politician. He simply chatted on merrily, speaking in English for the rest of the evening. When he spoke to De Gaulle, who as it happened spoke perfect English, he practically yelled, as if De Gaulle was deaf in both ears. Claire couldn’t tell if De Gualle was amused or insulted by this treatment. Probably a little of both.

Sometime during dessert- a decadent chocolate mousse - Frank leaned over in front of Claire, to say something to De Gaulle. His breath was hot and reeked of onions. Claire had to resist the urge to wrinkle her nose.

A minute later, Frank was distracted by the person on his other side. De Gaulle leaned in close to whisper discreetly in Claire’s ear.

“J’espère pour vous, ma chère, que le Président a une meilleure hygiène buccale à la maison.” (I hope, for your sake my lady, that the President practices better oral hygiene at home.)

Claire very nearly choked on her excellent red wine. She stared at De Gaulle, wide eyed. He winked at her and they fell into a fit of conspiratory giggles. Without thinking, Claire turned her head slightly to the side, peering over her shoulder.

Jamie was posted at the wall a few feet behind the table, well within earshot. His gaze was serious, scanning slowly as he surveilled the large ballroom. But Claire did not miss the slight quiver in the corners of his mouth as he tried to suppress a smirk. He spoke perfect French too.

****

Claire was bouncing with excitement as the dinner ended. She knew Frank would be taking important government officials to a club downtown. She had not been invited to attend. Not that she minded. Or even wanted to go. She had plans of her own.

The Louvre had just debuted a brand new Greek antiquities room and Claire had arranged for a private viewing. Being raised by a Professor of Archeology, Claire could say with some honesty that she’d had it arranged out of her own personal interest. But in reality, she’d done it for Jamie. Before the war, Jamie had studied at the University in Paris. Ancient Greece had been one of his favorite subjects. 

With the help of Geillis, a few of the other agents, and a little luck, she’d been able to plan the whole thing without telling the head of her security detail. An impressive feat, that. She couldn’t wait to see the look on his face.

“Ready to head home, Mrs. Randall?” He said smiling, as they left the dinner.

“Actually,” Claire said primly. “We’ve got one other stop to make first.”

Jamie’s brow furrowed. “What other stop? Ma’am, ye ken by now that we need notice of these things. The premises will need to be sweeped for-”

He was interrupted by a voice behind them.

“It’s been taken care of, sir.”

Elias Pound was the youngest member of Claire’s detail, and one of her favorites. He blushed furiously when Claire gave him a subtle wink.

Jamie pressed his mouth into a firm line, but made no further protest. For a moment she wondered whether they shouldn’t have given him just a little bit of notice. Jamie took his job very seriously and Claire did not want him to spend the entire viewing worrying over whether the place had been properly sweeped.

She needn’t have worried. A huge banner advertising the new antiquities wing was visible the second they stepped into the main lobby of the museum. Claire turned to peer at Jamie and her heart nearly stopped.

The smile took up his whole face, and his eyes went wide with excitement, almost childlike in wonderment.

For the first time since they’d met, Jamie walked ahead of Claire, bounding ahead with unbridled glee. Claire couldn’t help but giggle as she hurried to catch up to him.

Apparently coming to his senses, he immediately slowed his pace, his ears turning pink.

“I’m sorry Mrs. Randall, I don’t know what came over me.”

“Nonsense, Fraser.” She said waving her hand at him as they made there way into the wing. “After all, you are the expert here. Lead the way.”

At that moment Claire was sure that she would be willing to have every museum in Paris shut down for a private viewing, if it kept that beaming smile on his face.

Jamie was positively giddy as they made their way through the wing, stopping frequently to provide commentary on a particular piece, or to share a bit of knowledge relevant to the treasures around them. Claire was captivated.

“Ah.” Jamie said as the came to a large marble sculpture in the center of the room. All over the other sculptures seemed to be turned towards this one. “Now I’m sure ye’ll recognize this braw lad, Mrs. Randall.”

“Of course.” Claire said, fluttering her eyelashes, coming to stand beside him. She took in the formidable figure in front of her. Strong, commanding, and bold.

“Bear up, my child, bear up; Zeus who oversees and directs all things is still mighty in heaven.” She said, feeling a tad pretentious, as she always did when she quoted Sophocles. “Higher than gods and men; no equal to rival him.”

Jamie grinned at her, shrugging. “In the opinion of some.”

Claire arched a brow. “You disagree?”

“Oh Zeus was surely mighty. But I can think o’ a great many other mythical figures I’d rather be compared with.”

“Such as?”

He strolled lazily around the other statues as he considered. At the furthest corner of the room, he stopped in front of the only sculpture that stood taller than Zeus’.

“Well take Alexiares here.” He answered finally, stopping in front of a different statue.

“I’ve never heard of him.” Claire peered up into the stony gaze.

“His story is little known.” Jamie explained. “He was the son of Hephaestus, thrown from Olympus when the flames from the forge scarred his skin. Some villagers found him and nursed him back to health. He spent the rest of his days living in the woods and in the shadows, silently defending those who had shown him kindness.’

Claire stood stone still, transfixed by the glimmer in the deep blue of his eyes.

“They called him the mountain.”

Her mouth felt oddly dry. “Did they?”

He nodded. “They didna sing the songs of him, the way they do of other heroes. Mountains aren’t made to praised. They dinna stand watch for the songs.”

He saw her staring at him and coughed, trying to shake the pensive tone from his voice.

She came to stand a little closer to him than was strictly necessary. Her breath came short. “Sounds dreadfully lonely.”

He looked down at her, appearing to be as affected by their closeness as she was.

“There are worse fates a man could befall.”

Feeling suddenly a little too warm, Claire moved away from him, turning to the large mural on the wall. She wasn’t really looking at it, rather simply taking a moment to clear her mind.

“Very misunderstood, if you ask me.” Jamie offered from behind her, pulling her from her thoughts.

She turned to look at him, confused. “Hmmm? Who is?”

He nodded his head at the mural she had supposedly just been examining. She turned back around. It was a depiction of Icarus, deprived of his wings, falling into the blackness of the sea.

“Oh really, Mr. Contrarian?” She asked, amused. “Don’t tell me you’re attempting to extol the hidden virtues of hubris?”

He beamed at her. God, she thought. Being with him was as easy as breathing.

“Nay so much no.” He mused. “Icarus was a fool, tha’ I do not question.”

He stepped forward, closer to her. She could feel the heat of him against her back.

He continued, speaking softly. “But the Sun surely knew that to be so close would melt his wings of wax. And yet… it did not make him go.”

They stood in silence for a long time. Claire was mesmerized, both by the mural before her, as well as by the soothing rhythm of Jamie’s heart. She swore she could feel it beating in her bones.

She cleared her throat. “Perhaps you forget, the Sun did not have a choice.”

“And Icarus did?” Jamie’s voice rang clear behind her, in a tone she couldn’t quite place.

“Didn’t he?”

He waited to answer, for the space of three heartbeats.

“No. I dinna think he did.”

******

As soon as they exited the museum, Claire and Jamie were confronted with a massive sea of people. Apparently, word had gotten out about Claire Randall’s private viewing at the Louvre. The museum’s security team was sufficiently undermanned and very unprepared.

Jamie immediately sprang into action, taking Claire firmly by the arm as he spoke rapidly into his earpiece.

Claire’s heart was pounding. She couldn’t see straight. There were so many people. And nothing was standing between them and her, save her detail. Thirty men were no match for a mob.

Jamie was yelling something in Claire’s ear. Something about backup agents, two minutes out. Bringing the cars. She froze. She couldn’t move. They were descending on her, clawing at her.

One man, in particular, made Claire’s stomach clench in fear. The rest of the mob did not appear threatening. On the contrary, they came at her like a giant mass of adoration. Overwhelming, but not threatening. But this man… he was different.

He was older and ragged looking. He had a beard and long scraggly gray hair. A thick white scar that stretched from his temple to the corner of his lip. And his eyes – she would never forget his eyes. When she first saw them, they were unfocused- two different colors; one pale blue, one very dark brown. Wild, free from reason. And then, they did focus. They focused on Claire.

She didn’t see the knife. She didn’t see anything, it all happened so fast. The only thing she would ever recall from that moment in her life, was the sound of Jamie’s voice, snarling something in a language she did not recognize.

****

They took the man into custody. Duncan Kerr was his name. A mad man, they said he was. Truly deranged, convinced that attacking the First Lady would make him famous.

But it was an isolated incident. Nothing to worry about.

Claire’s hands were was still shaking by the time they were locked safely back inside the manor house.

Fraser had flat-out refused to be taken to the hospital, saying it would cause an unnecessary fuss. As of now, the only thing the Press knew was that the First Lady had been approached by a French citizen, clearly out of his mind, and that the agents had handled the situation appropriately. No injuries, no harm done. That was their story and they were sticking to it, as far as Jamie was concerned.

Claire frantically but politely shouted orders at Mary, sending her off to fetch the supplies she would need to see to Fraser’s wound.

“Here.” She said taking him by the arm and leading him into the kitchen.

“It’s ‘nay bother.” He said through gritted teeth as clenched at his side.

She shot him a look that brooked no argument. She pointed to a chair at the table.

“Sit.”

He obeyed without further protest.

“Right.” She nodded said with a nod, trying to organize her thoughts. “Mary should be back any moment. With any luck, she’ll be able to hunt down some good strong pain medicine, so you won’t feel-”

“I will not be taking any pain medicine.” He said firmly.

“But-”

“I will not allow my wits to be clouded like that. No’ while I’m on duty.”

Claire clenched her fists at her side, trembling with irritation. “You..you…bloody stubborn Scot!”

Jamie looked a little taken aback at first, but then he smiled. “Aye. I am sorry for the trouble ma’am.”

She snorted in frustration, “Fine.”

Mary returned with the supplies, “Will you be needing anything else ma’am?”

“No. Thank you, Mary.” Claire sided, smiling gratefully at the girl. With a nod, Mary turned and left the room.

Left them alone.

Claire brought her attention back to Fraser, carefully removing taking off the delicate white gloves she’d worn to dinner. She found an apron hanging on a hook by the door and tied it about her waist.

“Take off your shirt.” She said without preamble.

He jerked back, appearing thoroughly scandalized. Claire rolled her eyes.

“Relax, Mr. Fraser. It is not my intention to make indecent advances upon your virtue.”

The corner of his lips quirked up slightly in a faint smile. Still he hesitated.

Claire threw up her hands in frustration, “Well, I can’t very well stitch you up through your suit now can I?”

“I dinna think I will need stitches…”

“Well we can’t say for sure until I’ve had to look,” She fixed him with her best combat nurse glare.

Finally he conceded. She helped him out of his jacket and then his shirt. Still in nurse mode, she rolled up his undershirt until she found what she looking for. A short clean slash on his upper right abdomen. Not too deep, but he would need stitches.

All at once, it hit her. What he’d risked for her. What she’d almost lost. Before she could stop them, tears pooled in the corners of her eyes and trickled down her face.

Fraser looked truly alarmed for the first time that night. “Hey now lass, dinna fash. ‘Tis only a scratch.”

He gave her a lopsided smile and she laughed, wiping at her tears.

Suddenly, she was back in Frank’s study on election night. Jamie’s words to her echoing in her ears. I’m no’ one to take oaths lightly…

She was more than a little stunned to come face to face with physical evidence of the lengths to which he was willing to go.

This man would risk his life for her.

The fact of it was humbling, of course. But more than that it was terribly frightening.

He’d been lucky this time, his wound was minor. But next time…

She refused absolutely to let that particular thought develop.

She went to wash her hands.

“Take your undershirt all the way off please.” She didn’t look at him, focused on washing her hands at the sink in the corner.

When she returned to him at the table, her knees turned to jelly and she very nearly collapsed.

A few hours ago, she’d seen more than a hundred statues, molded in the image of Greek gods. None of them compared to the sight before her now.

He was positively exquisite, with finely shaped muscles that curved high on his shoulders and tight against his stomach. He seemed almost golden, the dim light in the room casting a shimmery glow against his skin, his arms and chest dusted lightly in fine copper hair.

This was how she dreamed of him. Rugged. A little wild. Little droplets of sweat pooling in the concavities of his muscles. She noticed that his hair, usually slicked down so neatly, had been tousled just a bit by the earlier altercation. She noticed a few rebel curls that had sprung free, now plastered in all directions on his forehead.

Seeing him this way sparked something feral in her. Something foreign. Never had she felt anything like this. For a terrifying instant, she thought she might try to mount him where he sat.

Fortunately, she was saved from her more primal instincts when her patient winced slightly in pain, clutching at his side. Without thinking, she switched back into nurse mode, pushing all other thoughts from her mind.

Here hands worked in a steady, practiced rhythm as she slowly stitched him up. Irritated with him as she was for not using the pain medicine (really, what was the bloody point of that?), she wasn’t in the mood to chat with him. She took a little grim satisfaction in the small grunts he made as the needle pierced his skin. That’ll show him, she thought. Bloody man. She noticed the way he moved with her, always turning just so, so that she never saw his back. She decided not to think anything of it.

Her mind began to wander as she worked. She wondered, in an absent sort of way, whether Frank would have acted in the same fashion had he been in Jamie’s position. Jamie acted out of duty, honoring his oath to protect her. But had Frank not sworn an oath to protect her as well? To care for her, as her husband? To keep her safe?

But then, they’d promised many things to one another that day.

“There.” She said, as she cut the suture, having placed the last stitch. She sat about bandaging him, her mood lightened as it always was when she felt the glow of accomplishment.

“I’m sorry.” Jamie’s voice was sudden. Quiet. Subdued.

She blinked up at him, not comprehending. “Why, whatever for?”

“Ye ken well what for.” His tone with her was different that she’d ever heard it. He sounded almost cross.

“Forgive me.” He sighed, seeing her shocked expression. “I should no’ speak to ye in such a way.”

“Mr. Fraser, you can speak to me in any way.” She implored, trying to make him believe her with her eyes. “I hope you know that. You saved my life, after all.”

“No ma’am.” He said gruffly, looking tortured. “I’m the reason you were in danger in the first place.”

Her jaw dropped. Surely she was hearing things. He looked away from her.

“I failed you.” His voice was barely above a whisper.

Claire didn’t know what she wished to do more - take him in her arms, and cradle his head on her chest - or grasp him by the shoulders and shake the sense back into him.

“Please look at me.”

He didn’t. She took a deep breath.

“James.” She said, using his Christian name for the first time.

His head snapped back around towards her in shock. Eyes wide - in surprise or terror?

The look in his eyes stirred something in her she did not know existed. Something that made her want to take him in, and tuck him away deep inside the sacred, secret parts of her and keep him safe, always.

Instead, she only took a shuddering breath in an attempt to collect herself. When she was ready, she spoke again.

“You did not fail me, and you know that. What is this really about?”

He didn’t say anything, but the far off gaze look in his eye told her exactly what he was thinking about. Realization dawned on her.

“I understand, you know.” She said gently. “Being here….”

She swallowed. Being here. In France.

“It brings it all back.” She finished, her voice thick with memory.

The War. Suffering. Fear. And loss. So much loss.

His eyes locked on hers and for an instant she felt she could step into his soul, should she care to, and live there with his secrets.

“I may not have failed you tonight. But I have failed others. And someday, I could fail you too.” His words revealed a pain in him that she felt on a cellular level.

“You can tell me about it, you know. When you’re ready. I would understand… better than most.” She said, trying to fend off flashbacks of her own time in the War.

“But what if I do and you dinna trust me to keep ye safe anymore?” She could see the genuine fear in his eyes. “I dinna think I could bear that.”

The words rose up before she could stop them.

“You are the only person I have ever trusted to keep me safe.” She couldn’t look at him. “Nothing you have done, or could do will ever change that.”

When she dared to look back at him, his eyes were clear and open for the first time since they had returned to the house. Without saying another word, she left him in the kitchen and went to her bedroom.

She did in fact have one other memory, from the attack. One she’d keep locked away in a secret place in her heart.

When Kerr had lunged for her and Jamie shielded her body with his, he had called out to her.

Claire. He had called her Claire.


	5. The Ridge

Chapter Five: The Ridge 

May 12th, 1953

James Fraser had seen some beautiful things.

He’d seen sun the sparkle in the blue of Loch Ness when his family picnicked at Urquhart castle.

He’d sailed with his Uncle across the Mediterranean to Africa, and reached the summit of Mount Kilimanjaro.

And now, he’d seen a sunrise on the Ridge.

They had arrived late the night before. Claire had fallen asleep in the car. Not wanting to wake her, he had carried her to her room and put her in her bed. Just before he turned to leave he saw a faint twitch in the corner of her mouth. Part of him wondered if she’d really been asleep. He didn’t dwell on it. He couldn’t afford to.

The Ridge was nestled in a bundle of rolling green mountains that reminded Jamie of his home. He stood out on the front porch, taking in the view before him. A dewy haze hung around the peaks with the coming of the dawn. The sky was a light with a thousand different shades of purple, pink, orange, blue, red and yellow, scattered with the dazzling rays of the rising sun, as it ascended amongst the misty green summits.

Jamie took in the sight and breathed deeply. Yes, he’d seen a lot of beautiful places. This was another.

“Good Morning.” Came a voice from behind him, still husky from sleep.

The waters of Loch Ness drained of color. Mt. Kilimanjaro crumbled into dust in his mind. Even the Sun that rose behind him dimmed into insignificance.

He felt so stupid. How had he ever called those things beautiful? He had not known the meaning of the word. Not until now.

She had not changed yet for the day, she stood before him wrapped in a white silk dressing gown that hung down to her ankles. Her face was bare and flushed, and her hair hung down about her shoulders, a great storm cloud of curls. It appeared to still be a little damp. She must have showered recently.

Even that night in her room when he’d seen her hair down, it had been straight. He had no idea it was curly.

“You’ll have to forgive my state.” She yawned coming to stand beside him at the rail. “I didn’t realize you’d be up.”

She tucked her hair behind her ear, making his fingers twitch.

“I’m always up before ye.” He eventually managed to stammer out.

He was painfully aware of her nearness. She leaned against the railing, facing him, with her arms crossed casually.

“Yes, but I just figured that since we’re loosening up the security a bit here, maybe you’d take the opportunity to sleep in.”

The remoteness of the Ridge would allow for a little wiggle room in the normally rigid security protocols. They had 20 agents with them, a small fraction of the force that stood vigil at the White House. One agent would be posted at every door leading into the main house, and there would be posts at both driveways, as well as all along the perimeter.

The Ridge was very easy to defend, Jamie reminded himself. The exact location of the estate was need to know; a total secret to the rest of the world. They had cameras everywhere, hidden in the trees surrounding them. The men that stood outside were among the best trained armed guards in the history of the world. No one could touch her here.

Claire had insisted on the more relaxed atmosphere, and Jamie had begrudgingly agreed, wanting to make her happy. He couldn’t help the anxiety that coursed through him, as illogical as it was.

Loosened security or not, Jamie would remain at Claire’s side. Where he belonged. He emerged from his thoughts, realizing that she was waiting for him to answer.

“I’ve always been an early riser.” He shrugged.

“Me too.” She smiled, and then looked away, blushing slightly. “Since you are up, I suppose I should change.”

He shook his head and furrowed his brow. “Ye dinna have to change on my account. After all, it’s yer house, Mrs. Randall.”

She glowed at his words and she turned towards the house, her eyes drifting warmly over this place that was just hers. She turned back to him, and her expression changed. She couldn’t meet his eye and she was fidgeting with herself self-consciously.

“Is something wrong?” She half laughed.

He couldn’t help but give her a soft smile back. “No, why do ye ask?”

“You’re staring.”

The smiled faded and his cheeks burned. Christ. He had been staring. He quickly looked away.

“Oh. I- I’m sorry ma’am. I didna mean to. It’s just… I never realized ye had curly hair. That’s all.”

It was Claire’s turn to blush.

“Oh… right.” She ran a hand through the wonderfully wild mass.

“Why do ye never wear it like that?” He asked, unable to help himself.

She shrugged. “Frank doesn’t like it. Says it makes me look unkempt.” She winced a little at the admission.

Her words hit Jamie like a bullet in his heart. For a moment, he couldn’t speak. He was sure he could live a thousand years and never find the words to describe how she looked. Unkempt, he turned the word over in his mind with disdain, certainly would not be one of them.

She was the sunrise itself. The warm pink of her skin, the light shining in her whiskey eyes, banishing the demons that hunted him in the night, and cleansed him with the promise of a new day.

“I’ve never seen anything sae bonny.” He choked out, surprising Claire, as well as himself.

A slow, sweet, smile spread across Claire’s face as he tried to think of the words that would excuse his foolish breach of professional boundaries.

But, before either of them could speak, Mrs. Bug burst out onto the porch.

“Good Morning, Mrs. Randall!” She practically sang, dancing over to Claire, bussing her warmly on both cheeks. “I can’t tell you what an honor it is to have you here.”

“Mrs. Randall, please, allow me to introduce Mrs. Bug.” Jamie interjected, seeing the confused expression on Claire’s face. She’d been ‘asleep’ the night before when they’d arrived and hadn’t yet met the Ridge’s housekeeper.

Murdina Bug was a short, round, woman in her late 50’s, with rosy cheeks and a button nose. She grasped Claire by the arm with a pair of heavily calloused hands, no doubt a result of years of hard work. She towed Claire off the porch, and Jamie followed quietly behind them, trying to hide a smirk.

“I wasn’t so sure what you’d be wanting for breakfast, so I just whipped up everything I could think of!”

Claire looked a little whiplashed. “Oh, you didn’t have to-

“A true southern breakfast is what you’ll get here ma’am! I’ve got flapjacks, bacon, grits, biscuits and gravy...”

Somewhere in the flurry, Claire insisted that she go up to change before breakfast. Jamie stood waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs, while Mrs. Bug pranced merrily off to the kitchen.

Mrs. Bug, and her husband Arch, had lived and worked on the Ridge for more than thirty years. When Jamie had first inquired about the Ridge as a potential retreat for the First Lady, it had been Arch, the Ridge’s caretaker, that he’d spoken to first. Unlike his wife, Arch was a man of few words. He barely spoke at all during their brief conversation, but it had been enough to convince Jamie that the Ridge was the perfect place.

The place had a long and rich history. There’d been a settlement here since as early as the mid 1760’s. The main house that stood today was originally built in 1782, and had been renovated and added onto throughout the years.

Since the late 19th century, the place had been used as a small mountain resort that drew visitors from all over. At first, Jamie was worried he wouldn’t be able to convince the owner to sell the place. But in the end, it had been fairly easy. After all, who could say no to a request of the First Lady?

The property was truly impressive, sporting 8 well appointed guest cabins, a shooting range, and a large stable. Jamie’s heart sank just a tad when he’d learned that the stables hadn’t been in use for many years. But Claire had never expressed any interest in riding, so it wasn’t really an issue.

The main house had two levels. The upper level consisted of the master-suite, with an additional bedroom connected to it by a door, as well as a study. The lower level boasted a large kitchen, formal dining room, and living room, as well as the only other bedroom in the the main house.

They’d worked out the sleeping arrangements in the weeks leading up to the visit. Claire, of course, would sleep in the master suite. Mary Hawkins, her assistant, would sleep in the connected room, with Jamie in the bedroom downstairs. The rest of the agents would sleep in the guest cabins when not on duty.

Claire returned wearing a pair of casual dark blue slacks and a white blouse. She’d left her hair curly, and pulled it back into a half-up, half-down style with a large clip. She smiled at him brightly.

She nodded towards the kitchen. “Shall we?”

“Aye, ma’am. Lead the way.”

*******

After breakfast, Jamie and Claire set out for a walk around the grounds. More than once, he had to tear his eyes away from her. He had always been aware that she was an attractive woman. He was a man, after all, and not blind. But there was a growing closeness between him that made him painfully aware of the sweet, soft curves of her body. He’d never seen her in trousers before and his cheeks burned with desire and shame as his eyes helplessly ran over the solid roundness of her arse.

He clenched his jaw and set his lips in a thin line. He needed to get a grip on himself. And quickly. This was his job and she was counting on him. He could not allow himself to be distracted. More than that, he could not allow the boundaries of their working relationship to blur any further.

She had a near dizzying effect on him. He’d felt it from the moment he first touched her, when she’d fallen into his arms back in Boston. He did his best to ignore it. But there were some moments when he thought he’d go mad with the wanting of her.

That night in her room when he’d held her in his arms as she cried. That lazy afternoon in the library when she let him read to her from his favorite book. On the plane to France, when he’d gotten nauseous and she’d dabbed the sweat from his brow. He had been mortified, of course, that he’d behaved so unprofessionally. But the feeling of her hands on his face was enough to make his knees weak with just the memory of it.

There was a word for it. What he felt for her. He’d seen the shadow of it, in the corner of his mind, that night in Paris when she’d tended to his wounds. He didn’t dare look straight at it, for if he ever allowed the thought to pass clearly through his mind, he knew he’d have to leave. Leave her. And that was not an option. He was the only person she trusted to keep her safe. She felt safer with him by her side. And by her side he would stay. No matter what it cost him.

Having come to the bottom of the hill, they turned to look back up at the house. It really was a bonny wee thing. Sturdily built with a clean white exterior and black shutters, the place looked as though it were from another time. Though, in a way it was, he supposed.

“Did I ever thank you, Mr. Fraser?” She asked suddenly, surprising him a little.

He frowned. ‘What for?”

She put her arms out, gesturing at the land around them. “For finding this place. For me.”

He opened his mouth to reply but she cut him off.

“And don’t say something foolish, like you were only doing your job.” She smirked. “Last I checked, house hunting is not in the job description of a Secret Service Agent.”

He had no counter, and couldn’t help but grin at her, pleased. “Ye like it then? Truly?”

“Very much.”

Before he realized what was happening, she was moving towards him. She wrapped her arms around him and pulled him close, his arms automatically coming around her in return.

“Thank you.” She whispered.

It was a brief, innocent hug that lasted no more than a few seconds. And yet, Jamie’s heart was pounding furiously in his ears. She stepped away from him again and he swallowed. Hard. He felt the need to gulp air into his lungs. He finally managed the strength to smile at her.

“It was my pleasure.” He croaked out.

Some time later, they found themselves in the spot that had been chosen for Claire’s wee garden. All of the tools and equipment she would need had already been brought down. She stared at Jamie in surprise when he donned a pair of the worn working gloves.

“You’re going to help me then?” She asked, unable to suppress a smile.

“Oh aye.” He nodded seriously. “It wouldna do for me to stand idly by while a lady does all the work. My Granny would roll over in her grave.”

Claire laughed at him- a high, beautiful sound that made him a little giddy.

Jamie had asked that the bed for Claire’s garden be dug prior to their arrival. Before them now were four shallow trenches, each roughly 12 inches deep, 15 feet long and 5 feet wide. They were perfectly spaced, separated by only a few feet.

At first they worked mostly in silence, carrying on in an easy rhythm as they tilled the soil. Jamie breathed the fresh clean air and realized he felt more like himself than he had in years. Perhaps it was being outdoors, high in the mountains, with the tranquility of endless trees around him. Or perhaps it was that he was - for once- not dressed in a suit, but rather in simple brown trousers and a soft green shirt. Claire had insisted that the agents observe casual dress on the Ridge.

“Wouldn’t do to have you all traipsing about the forest in suit and tie, now would it?” She’d reasoned, smirking at him.

She had been right, of course, and though he was sure his bosses would not be over pleased by it, Jamie had acquiesced easily.

After a little while, they took a short break, standing off to the side of the plot, sipping from water bottles.

“What will ye be plantin’ here do ye think?” He asked, suddenly curious.

Claire wiped her sweaty brow with the back of her hand. “I’ve a few herbs in mind to plant. But I was also thinking… tell me, what do you think of strawberries?”

“Strawberries?” He grinned broadly . “A right braw fruit, to be sure.”

“I’d have never imagined you could be so enthusiastic about garden plants.” She giggled.

“Och, well, I suppose I’m a tad bit biased.” He admitted sheepishly. “Strawberries have always been the emblem of the clan- my clan that is. Clan Fraser.”

“Really?” Her eyes took on a mischievous glow. “Certainly a departure from the other clan emblems you tend to see.”

“I’ll have you know,” He declared in mock indignance, eyes sparkling, “that strawberries are quite the significant wee fruit.”

“Do enlighten me.” She sparkled back.

“Well, it’s all the colors aye? Strawberry plants sprout covered in green leaves and wee white flowers. The white flowers are for honor, and red fruit for courage—and the green leaves are for constancy.”

She didn’t respond at first, just stared at him, the strangest look on her face. When she finally did speak, her voice sounded oddly thick.

“That’s remarkably well suited I think.”

“Oh aye?” He chuckled nervously. “Been acquainted with many Frasers have you?”

She shook her head. “Just one.”

His mouth went dry and any ability to speak intelligently seemed to vanish. He took a deep pull from the water bottle in his hand, thanking god for his inscrutable face. The same could certainly not be said for Claire, however, he thought as he turned back to her. It was as though he could see her every thought as it played across her face. He often wondered if everyone could see her that way, or just him.

In any event, it was clear that she was trying to ask him something, but couldn’t find the words. His mouth opened to speak, but she beat him to it.

“May I call you James?” She spat out, looking at her feet. “At least... at least while we’re here.” 

Jamie’s jaw dropped just a little in surprise but he quickly clamped it shut.

“I apologize if I’m crossing a line.” She amended hastily. “It’s just, well we do spend a great deal of time together and it seems silly-” 

“No, no, yer no’ crossing a line. Ye can call me whatever ye’d like.” He stammered out awkwardly. On impulse, he added, “Back home, they call me Jamie.”

Her mouth worked as she repeated the name silently to herself. The sun was getting awfully high in the sky, and they’d been at work for some time now. Should they not be heading back to the main house for lunch?

“Mrs. Randall, do ye-”

“And that’s another thing.” She said, cutting him off.

She took on a look of determination, squaring her shoulders and turning to face him full on.

“I don’t want to be Mrs. Randall.” She said firmly, startling him a bit with her intensity. “Not with you. Not here.”

The loneliness in her voice tore at his heart. “What shall I call ye then?”

She narrowed her eyes at him, as though it were obvious. “Claire. Call me Claire.”

His eyes widened and he laughed nervously. “I dinna ken if I-”

“Or anything really.” She interrupted, barely concealing the disappointment in her voice. “Just not Mrs. Randall. I can’t remember the last time I’ve been called anything else. Just Mrs. Randall and that- that bloody codename!”

“Ye dinna like Outlander?” For some reason he found this amusing.

She glared at him. “I can certainly think of a number of more flattering designations.”

He laughed out loud at that, ignoring the murderous look in her eyes.

“Very well then.” He knew he must have the most ridiculous grin on his face, but he didn’t care. “I willna call ye by either of those names. No’ while we’re here.”

“Thank you.... Jamie.” Her smile lit up her face.

Oh Christ, to hear his name on her lips...

“Come along, then Sassenach.” He said casually, inclining his head towards the main house. “Mrs. Bug will surely be having lunch ready soon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dinna fash! Chapter Six will bring more down time at the Ridge before heading back to Washington!


	6. In Another Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Friday! Okay, so this will probably be my last update for a few weeks as I descend into the madness of finals season. But it’s a super long one and I’ll be back in a few weeks with a month off of school and way too much free time. 
> 
> Note: I wanted to base Jamie’s time in the war on the experiences of real Ally soldiers captured during World War Two. As result, this chapter deals with PTSD and contains some mildly disturbing material.

Chapter Six: In Another Life

Those three weeks, her first at the Ridge, were among the happiest that Claire could remember. Slowly, day by day, the hard, cold, suffocating shell of Mrs. Randall began to crack open bit by bit as plain old Claire Beauchamp fought her way to the surface with a vengeance.

It was like emerging from a stuffy room and stepping out into the fresh air. She felt lightheaded with it- unable to stop from greedily gulping the oxygen into her lungs.

She felt like herself again. Which was in itself remarkable, considering a month ago she’d no earthly idea who she even was. But this…. this place… this life… this was her. The dirt from her garden caked underneath her fingernails. The sweet breeze the caressed her so gently has she stood on the porch in the mornings, watching the sunrise.

And Jamie.

Jamie, Jamie, Jamie.

That first day on the Ridge he’d given her license to call him by the name his family had given him, and at first, she couldn’t seem to stop saying it.

They had settled into a sweet little routine. Breakfast together- every morning. Claire had insisted that Jamie, Mary, and any other agents that weren’t on duty, would join her at the table for meals. Both of them being early risers, her and Jamie almost always ate alone.

She loved to hear him speak in his native language. The Ghàidhlig, as he called it, was a fascinating, complicated tongue that she relished to hear in the low grumble of his voice.

“Say something else!” She would giggle at him over the breakfast table in the morning.

With a roll of his eyes, he would always oblige.

“Ith do braiceas a blaomag!” He would smirk, eyes sparkling. (Eat your breakfast silly woman).

Their days were filled with long, pleasant walks around the property, and hours spent working in her garden. Her only official business taking up usually no more than an hour each day, typically just after lunch, when she would speak to Geillis by phone. For the first time in years, Claire had time to herself. She began learning herself again. Rediscovering who she was before Frank Randall. All the while, getting to know Jamie as well.

They talked constantly, about anything and everything. Sometimes, haltingly, about the war, but more often they stuck to happier subjects. She was hungry to know everything about him. His favorite film (Citizen Kane), his biggest regret (not being there for his Father’s death), his happiest memory (the day his sister Jenny married his best friend, and brother of his heart, a man named Ian).

Jamie, it seemed, was just as eager to know her as well.

“And you Sassenach?” He’d asked. “What is your happiest memory?”

She’d told him then of the memory she had of her father, one of the few she could recall to her mind. It was somehow easier to to speak to him of the family she’d lost. The kind tenderness in his eyes making her feel as though she wasn’t bearing the pain of it alone- letting her find the magic in her memories once more.

“It was just before Christmas. The last one before the accident.” She murmured, a small wistful smile on her face. “We were still living in Oxfordshire. My father promised to take me into town, to the new skating rink that had just opened. But there was a blizzard and the roads were too dangerous so we couldn’t make the trip.”

She swallowed the lump in her throat, trying with all her might to bring the image of Henry Beauchamp’s warm, loving smile to her mind.

“He was so sad to disappoint me. He spent the rest of the day off with Lamb in the woods behind our house. After nightfall, he came to fetch me. We walked through the trees for a time, until we came to this frozen pond in a clearing. Lamb was there, waiting with a brand new pair of skates. They’d hung tiny lanterns on the trees around the pond and everything looked so magical. They stayed out there with me for hours, holding my hand until I could manage a bit on my own.”

Her lip quivered with emotion. It did make her sad to think of, yes, but with Jamie there, his big hand resting lightly over hers, she was strong enough to look past her grief and recapture the joy those two wonderful men had given her that night.

“They loved you verra much Sassenach.”

She smiled then, both at the words he’d said, as well as that strange, wonderful name he’d called her. She’d wanted him to call her Claire but understood his hesitation. And he had kept his word. Since that day, he hadn’t called her Mrs. Randall once. Sassenach, as he had explained to her, was the gaelic word for Outlander. She hated being called Outlander- as if she didn’t already feel isolated and alone in the world. But Sassenach… well, it just felt different. Right. 

She loved the way he said it. The way his lip turned up a little on one side. The phlegmy sound of the ‘ch’ at the end. She no longer felt like an outsider that didn’t belong. The name made her feel exotic. Seen. Appreciated.

It made her feel like his.

May 28th, 1952

For the most part, Claire managed to convince herself that she would never be forced to leave her cozy little home in the mountains. For the most part, she could pretend that she had no responsibilities other that to the herbs growing proudly in her garden.

She achieved this so thoroughly, in fact, that she often forgot who she was, and who Jamie was. They were just two people, worried with nothing other than the slow, lazy dance of learning one another’s hearts, hidden amongst the gentle green curves of rolling hills.

However, despite her best efforts, her eager imagination could not slow the passage of time. In what seemed a blink of an eye she found herself moping about the main house on the eve of their return to Washington.

A grand celebration would be held at the White House this weekend to commemorate Memorial Day. It was to be a very public, flashy affair, and Frank had insisted on her presence.

She shuddered, thinking of the young soldiers clad in their crisp dress uniforms, standing at attention in neat lines, eyes ever forward, stoic and strong. How could she look at them and not see the faces of those who had died in her arms in France, thousands of miles away from home?

Her eyes found Jamie, settled on the sofa across from the armchair where she sat. What would it do to him to come face to face with the reminder of that terrible time? She knew he struggled with lingering ghosts from his time at war. Subtle little moments that betrayed his strong facade- a sudden distant look in his eye, a tightening of his jaw, the slightest tremble in his hands.

She had tried more than once to speak to him about the War, offering up recollections of her own experience in an effort to meet him halfway. He would always engage willingly enough at first, eyes intent and concerned, speaking gently to her with words of comfort and acknowledgement as she told him of the people, places and moments that so often haunted her dreams.

But when she tried to bring the conversation to that of his own experience, he would shut down completely. He was never cross with her, but the gentle insistence of his tone made it clear that she’d reached a line he’d drawn in the sand. She didn’t want to push him. But she hated the idea of him working through all of that pain alone.

For the moment, however, he looked untroubled, the soft light from the lamp on the end table casting him in a warm glow. It had become something of a nightly ritual for him to read to her as they shared a glass of whisky. Just now, they were each on their third, Claire having been able to cajole him into the slight indulgence to commemorate their last night on the Ridge.

He always picked the book and she listened happily with eager ears. Tonight, he’d selected a book of poetry. For most of the evening, she only half listened to the words he said, simply savoring the low sweet rumble of his voice. One poem, though, at the end of the volume caught her attention.

A few rogue wisps of fiery red hung loss on his forehead as he peered down at the page before him. His eyes creased slightly as he reached the last stanza, the sweet hum of his voice oozing across her heart like honey.

“In another life, I would be free.   
I would be bolder, kinder and wiser;   
I would be a giant in my own mortal skin.   
I would know ecstatic love, and,   
I would be whole, and fierce, and worthy of that love.  
I would be everything I ever wanted to be.   
In another life, I would be me.”

Jamie closed the book, his eyes oddly distant, his mouth pressed into a flat line. 

She quirked her head at him. “Is something wrong?”

He started out of his trance. “Oh… nay, Sassenach. It’s just… well it seems a wee bit foolish to me.”

“What does? The poem?” She yawned, stretching luxuriously. “I thought it was lovely.”

He shrugged, taking another sip of whisky. “It seems a shame, though, to be spending your time daydreaming about how you wish your life could be.”

“There’s nothing wrong with a little daydreaming Jamie.” She said primly. “You should try it sometime.”

“Should I then?” He asked playfully, head titled just so, grin wide.

“Yes, I think so.” She rose and joined him on the couch. At a respectful distance of course. She took a quick swig of her whisky before continuing. “Here, I’ll go first.”

“In another life I would… “ She glanced randomly about the room, considering. “.. have straight hair. Much more manageable.”

He frowned. “Och but yer hair’s just-”

She rolled her eyes good-naturedly. “You’re missing the point. It’s just pretend!”

He rolled his eyes at her in return and leaned back against the cushions, stretching his arms out along the sofa. She scooted imperceptibly closer to him, without even meaning to.

“Your turn.” She informed him, in a melodic voice.

“In another life… “ He rubbed his hand thoughtfully along the line of his jaw. “I wouldna be a ginger.”

Her brows knitted together in displeasure at the idea of Jamie without his fiery mane. She had to bite her lip to keep from voicing any hypocritical protests. He watched her expectantly.

“In another life I would be a better dancer.” She laughed.

“And I wouldna be tone deaf.” He replied quickly with a self-deprecating chuckle.

Silence fell upon them and Claire started to consider the more meaningful possibilities of her hypothetical existence in an alternative universe.

“I… wouldn’t get married so young.” She wrung her hands in her lap, suddenly feeling very exposed.

When she looked up at him, he was watching her, a storm in his eyes fueled by the sweetest tenderness, as well as bone deep understanding.

“I wouldna be marked by war.” He played absently with a loose thread on the blanket thrown over the back of the couch. “I would find myself a braw bit of land and make my place there and live in peace.”

The raw feeling in his voice spurred her on, and now she spoke without thought.

“I would be a doctor. I would take care of people. I would have a purpose.”

He beamed at her, as though he’d always envisioned such a life for her. He scooted closer, leaning towards her.

“I would have a big family. Lots of bairns. I’d build a sturdy wee house and fill it up w’ noise and laughter.”

Without either of them realizing it, the rest of the world fell into non-existence. If you had asked Claire in that moment, who she was, where she was, or what her middle name was, she would have gone 0 for 3. She had no memories. No past. No future. Just Jamie. Even the music crooning softly from the record player in the corner ceased to hold any meaning. Claire knew no songs, the beating of Jamie’s heart the only rhythm she cared to hear.

“I think I would have that too.” She breathed.

She drained the rest of her whisky. Jamie followed suit. She took the empty glass from his hand and set it down, along with hers, on the coffee table.

They were silent for a long moment. The question formed in her brain unbidden, and with the whisky flowing like fire in her veins, and the equally intoxicating nearness of Jamie, she was helpless to stop the words from rising up in her throat.

“Do you think we would find each other? In that life.”

He tilted his head thoughtfully, not taken aback in the slightest by her absurd question. In the dim lamplight, he looked as though he could have walked right out of a classic oil painting. She studied the shadows of his face, staring at him unabashedly and not worried with it in the least.

“I think so. I canna explain it… but…” His eyes roamed over her, unguarded in a way that made her heart flutter. “But… bein’ by ye… protectin’ ye… it feels like I was meant to do it. In this life, or any other.”

She wasn’t sure how it happened, but they were suddenly much closer together on the couch than could be deemed professionally appropriate.

She tried desperately to control her breathing. “Jamie… I-”

She wasn’t sure exactly what she was planning to say. And she never found out. Mary Hawkins’ high, hesitant voice rang out like a needle, piercing their intimate bubble of warmth.

“Excuse me Mrs. Randall, you-” She began, walking into the living room. She stopped in her tracks when she saw Claire and Jamie, facing each other on the sofa, knees touching, heads bent together. “Oh! I- I’m sorry to disturb-”

Claire quickly jumped to her feet, smiling at Mary in an effort to dispel the threat of forming presumptions.

“You didn’t disturb anything Mary. What is it?”

She looked from Jamie, to Claire and then to her own feet. “The President is on the phone for you.”

Claire received a call nightly from Sandy, Frank’s private secretary, ensuring her welfare and extending Franks well wishes on his behalf. This was only the third time she’d heard from Frank directly in the nearly three weeks she’d been at the Ridge. He was surely calling to make sure she was ready for the ceremony they would attend together in Washington the following afternoon.

The sudden dose of reality hit her like a slap across the face. For a moment all she could do was stare at her assistant, blinking furiously in an effort to get her bearings.

“Thank you Mary.” She spluttered at last. “I’ll take the call in my bedroom.”

Mary nodded and left the room without a word. Jamie was standing when Claire finally turned back to face him.

The words whispered across her soul again when his eyes met hers, like a dream upon waking. In another life…

She was getting better at seeing through the mask he wore to hide his thoughts and she could see the storm raging within as clearly as she could see her own hand in front of her face. The intensity of his gaze made her dizzy. She swallowed. Hard.

“Goodnight, Jamie.” She mumbled, verging on whimpering.

She could see him fighting to control himself. She hated it. The idea of him censoring himself for her… of him giving her anything less than himself, just as he was, made her want to scream out in rage and devastation.

Finally, he smiled at her, weakly. “Goodnight, Sassenach.”

******

Claire had to lean back against the closed door of her bedroom for several minutes, taking deep, long, shuddering breaths.

Being near him was the most beautiful agony. He literally made the world come alive around her. He made the muscles in her hand ache with the restrained desire to touch him. She thought of running a thumb along the strong hard line of this jaw and she swore she could feel the echo of his skin tingling in her own flesh. His skin there would be smooth, she thought, clean shaven as he was, but with just the barest prickling hint of stubble.

She shook her head hard, almost violently, trying to put him and the feelings he inspired in her to one side for just this moment. She knew that the sound of Frank’s voice in her ear would be like icy water dumped on her head, pulling her from the warm embrace of her life here. She needed to be numb first, in order to face it. She needed to be Claire Randall.

She squared her shoulders and strode over to the phone on her bedside table. She squeezed her eyes shut and finally felt the shell descend upon her once more. She tried not to think about how it was getting harder and harder to bring it back. She brought the receiver to her ear.

“Hello Frank.”

******

Claire heard him in her dreams. She rose to waking from his cries. Clawing through the fog of sleep, to get to him, to comfort him.

She donned her dressing gown and all but stumbled out into the hall. The agonized cries somehow seemed to be calling to her alone, so it was something of a surprise to see that someone else had indeed been roused by them as well. But when Mary emerged from the door next to hers, she instinctively knew to keep her from going downstairs.

“Go back to sleep, Mary.”

The young girls eyes widened. “But, ma’am-”

Claire placed a light hand on her shoulder. “It’s alright. Go back to bed and whatever you do, don’t come back downstairs.”

Mary hesitated, looking behind Claire to the stairs that led below.

“If I need you, I’ll call for you.” Claire insisted, giving her a gentle nudge back towards her bedroom.

Mary nodded her begrudging agreement, though she still looked anxious. Once Mary was back in her room, Claire took a deep breath and padded quietly down the dark hallway, saying a silent prayer of thanks for her young assistant. Mary had a number of endearing qualities, one of them being her tremendous respect for Claire’s privacy. Whatever she happened to make of this incident, no one would ever hear of it.

To her surprise, he stood in the living room, in front of the fireplace, hands gripping the mantle, head hanging in despair. Even in the dark, she could see he was trembling. He didn’t look up when the incoherent, strangled sound escaped from her throat.

“I’m sorry. I didna mean to wake ye.” He whispered.

She didn’t answer at first, only cautiously made her way over to him, praying with every step that she could find the words to take his pain away.

She was standing right behind him now. The white t shirt he wore was soaked with sweat. She wanted desperately to touch him. To run her fingers through his hair and trace the lines of his face. She approached him with her usual tactic. Offering up a piece of her own pain, an assurance to him that his would be safe in her hands.

“It never occurred to me, until today. How horrible it will be at the ceremony… all those young soldiers… “ Her voice was choked with emotion, hoping she had guessed right, hoping she could see the shadows of his soul as clearly as she thought she could. 

He head snapped up in surprise and he turned his face to the side towards her. The mask was crumbling before her eyes. Please, she begged silently. Trust me.

“I’m afraid that,” she continued, “... that… that I’ll see the faces of all the men I couldn’t save. There were so many… so young…”

She struggled to keep her own demons at bay. The time of her own reckoning would surely come, but not tonight. Jamie’s had come tonight. And she would be there, fighting beside him.

He turned stiffly, letting his arms fall with a slap against his sides. He looked down at her and she could see a thousand different emotions unraveling in the dreamy blue depths of his eyes. Fear. Trust. Despair. Hope. Shame. And fear. Fear most of all.

“‘Tis not the same.” He sighed, making a final stand for the secrets of his heart.

“Tell me. Please.”

“I canna… we… I shouldna burden ye so. I’m the head of yer detail, and I canna-”

She put a feather light finger to his lips, stopping his speech. His eyes shut immediately and she felt the tickle of his breath when he gasped. After a moment, she let her hand fall away, savoring the feeling of him on her finger tips.

“Surely you know you are more to me than that.” She implored. His eyes snapped back open, boring into hers in silent question.

“You’ve been…. Well, I would say you’ve been a friend to me but… that… doesn’t seem quite right.”

He rapidly looked away, staring at his feet instead.

“I just mean…” She amended hastily, trying to find the words to describe what he was to her. By the time she spoke again, she was looking at her feet as well. “That the word ‘friend’ wouldn’t even begin to describe what you’ve been to me these past months.”

She still couldn’t look at him. Instead, she took a steadying breath and trudged on.

“I was… so alone. And no one seemed to notice. And then you came along and … well, I wasn’t anymore.” She finished lamely.

When she finally looked at him again, she was met with the fierce indigo of his eyes, searching hers. He was so close, she could see it. He trusted her. She knew he did. But his fear was still there, holding him back.

His hesitant vulnerability emboldened her. She could do this. She could get him through this.

“I meant it when I said that you were the only one I trusted to keep me safe.” She held his gaze, unblinking. “And not just for the obvious reasons. I know you would die before letting anything happen to me, but it’s more than that.”

He stayed silent, incomprehension etched on his face. How could she make him see what he did for her? The Adams memoir he had given her. This beautiful escape in the mountains he had found for her. The night he’d held her, soothed her, when she felt as though the weight of the world was crushing her.

“You’re the only person who seems to care that I don’t get lost in all of this.” She whispered. “I don’t know what I would do without you.”

His eyes tightened in pain and indecision.

“Please.” She begged again. Not backing down. “I… I can’t stand to see you hurting. Please let me help you.”

At last, his shoulders slumped in surrender as the last shred of his resolve left his body in a huge, heaving exhale.

“I dinna want to destress ye, but I think it might be easier to… I’ve not let anyone see before… not willingly anyway.”

Her brows furrowed in confusion, not understanding.

“I didna think I could bear the pity. But with you… I... “ He swallowed, unable to find the words.

She waited patiently, willing to give him all the time in the world, and then some. Finally, he raised his head in decision. Not taking his eyes off hers, he slowly lifted his shirt up and over his head. Claire stepped back, eyes wide in confusion, taking in the sight of him bare chested, plaid pajama bottoms hanging off his hips.

“What are you-?”

Her words turned to a strangled cry in her throat as he turned and laid the true horror of his suffering bare before her. Her eyes ran over the deep, permanent grooves in his golden skin, as she took in the criss-crossed mass of scars that covered his back.

“Oh…. Jamie…” She sobbed quietly.

He didn’t say anything, just remained still has stone before her, fists balled at his side.

She moved towards him, trancelike, her hand coming up of its own volition, finger ghosting lightly over the angry ridges. She heard his sharp intake of breath, and let the hand fall back to her side. He turned back to face her, eyes searching hers, looking for pity, for disgust, and finding neither. His shoulders sagged just the slightest bit in relief.

“Will ye sit Sassenach?” He whispered in a husky voice, gesturing towards the sofa.

She nodded, mute. They sat close together on the couch, much as they had earlier that night, knees just barely touching, heads bent together. They were silent for a long while, just listening to each other breathe. And when he was ready, he surrendered to her, letting the last bastions of his defense crumble into bits around them.

“I was assigned to a special forces team, working with the Americans to infiltrate the French countryside as the allies prepared for D-Day. Three weeks in, we split with the American half of the team to do recon along the Maginot Line. Eight days later, we were making our way back to rendezvous in Reims..”

He took a long, deep, steadying breath. She steeled herself as well, grasping his hand hard without thought.

“90 miles out, we were set upon.”

“German soldiers?” She asked, tears barely kept at bay.

He smiled wryly, shaking his head. “S.S.”

Her mouth went dry. To be captured by German Armed Forces would be one thing. As officers in Germany’s military, they would have been bound by the laws of war, Jamie and his men would have been given the chance to surrender and likely sent to a POW detention center in Switzerland, where they would wait out the rest of the war in relative safety.

The Schutzstaffel, on the other hand, was a different monster all together. A para-military organization operating under edict of the German government, “Hitler’s personal army” answered to no one but the Führer and operated as they saw fit. I’d spoken to enough soldiers during my time in France to know that death was often preferable to capture by the S.S.

“I woke up in a camp near Frankfurt. I never fooled myself into believing that I was truly prepared to be tortured… but I didna quite realize just how unprepared I was either, ken?”

She stood firm, not wavering, holding his hand tightly, but she couldn’t help the single hot tear that slipped silently down her cheek.

He kept his own tears in check as he told her of the 6 months he spent in the S.S. camp. How he was tortured for the location of the rendezvous with the Americans, and for his knowledge of the upcoming ally invasion. He was able to convince them of his ignorance on the latter point, but not the former. As the commanding officer for the unit, he was the only man who knew the exact location, which meant his men were (relatively) safe, for the time being. He took comfort in that.

He held out as long as he could, giving Dan Morgan and his team as much time as possible to get to safety. He withstood the beatings, the starvation, the forced sleep deprivation. He even stood his ground through the floggings. Two of them. 100 lashes each, all within the span of a week. But then, the S.S. used his own men against him.

“They brought them to me one by one Sassenach. One every week.” He wept brokenly now. “Made them get on their knees and beg me for their life. Made me watch as they were shoved into the dirt and shot like dogs.”

His shoulders shook with the intensity of his devastation. Claire could do nothing but weep silently with him, all the while holding on to his hand for dear life.

“I wasna strong enough for that Sassenach. I was so tired and hungry and there wasna a part of me that didn’t hurt. I didna ken what was what. My mind was a mess I…”

He trailed off helplessly, and she stroked the back of his hand lightly with her thumb, waiting for him to go on.

“Integrity of the mission,” He said quietly, as though to himself. “That’s the priority. They drilled that into us in training. Mission first, comrades second, self last. I… I…”

More deep breaths. 

 

“I had to make sure Morgan could get away, so that the intelligence we’d collected could… But did I no’ owe a duty to my men as well? They were my responsibility… I couldna let them die… I…”

He squeezed his eyes shut, in an effort to compose himself. “I managed to hold out for four weeks. I watched four of my men die before I broke.”

She squeezed his hand even tighter in support.

“Most of the time, I can convince myself that I did the right thing. Morgan had just barely enough time to get away. The information we’d collected was used in the invasion. Probably saved countless lives.”

He tilted his head back, eyes liting up to the ceiling. Beseeching.

“And then other times... “ Another strangled breath. “Other times, I canna see anything but those men, kneeling at my feet, begging me to save them.”

His face fell forward to rest in his hands, all the air coming out of him at once as though the weight of the world had just been lifted from his shoulders.

Claire had no words. She looked down at the strong, trembling hand she grasped tightly in her own, suddenly seeing every line, every knick, every tiny scar, in a startling new light. She felt his pain so acutely, as though someone had plunged a knife into her belly. She shook with it. The need to comfort him. The need to make him whole again.

Moved by a force more powerful than anything she’d ever known, she took his face in her hands, and brought it up to meet hers.

“Can I hold you?” She croaked desperately, with no great expectation. To her astonishment, he hesitated only for a second before all but collapsing into her shoulder.

She wrapped her arms about him, squeezing so tightly, she was sure his ribs would crack. They stayed that way for a long time, his face pressed into the curve of her neck, as she rocked him gently back and forth. She thought she heard him mumble something, but she couldn’t be sure.

('S ann leatsa a tha mise gu brath, he whispered without meaning to. Ged a tha iallan mo chridhe gam riasladh.)

Nothing had changed. Claire was still Claire, First Lady and wife of the President. Jamie was still Jamie, head of her detail. And yet, at the same time, everything had changed. She couldn’t deny what she felt for him. Even though she couldn’t act on it, even though the wanting of him would surely tear her to shreds, she could not, would not, deny it. 

A long time later, she helped him to stand and lead him to his bed. She tucked him tenderly under his blankets, just has he had done for her all those months ago. She stayed for a long time, sitting on the edge of the bed beside him, watching him, stroking his hair.

When she was sure he was asleep, she leaned in close to his ear, and whispered the purest secret of her heart.

“In another life… in this life… in every life… I am yours.”


	7. Mail Code 59976

Chapter Seven: Mail Code 59976

June 30th, 1953

 

 

“And Dr. Abernathy is the only physician on staff?”

Jamie sat at the desk in his tiny room at the White House, barely suppressing a yawn as he spoke into the receiver.

“Yes.” The voice on the other line replied. “And we have no plans to bring anyone else on anytime soon.”

Jamie was relieved to hear that. Abernathy was clean as a whistle.

“Well, in any case I thank ye for answering my questions.” He sighed, leaning back in his chair. “We just can’t be too careful.”

“Of course. We’re honored by her interest in the clinic and we’re more than happy to do whatever we can to ensure her safety during her visits. Do you know when Mrs. Randall is planning on coming in to volunteer again?”

Jamie glanced quickly at his wrist watch; Claire would be waking soon. He needed to get to his post.

“Not exactly, but I do know she wants verra much to come back when she’s in the area again. Sometime around the end of the summer.”

“We look forward to it.”

After Jamie had bid the man farewell, he stood from the desk and made for the residence.

He had just shut his bedroom door when he turned, coming face to face with a very stunned looking John Grey.

“Grey?” Only shadows had bedrooms in the residence. Grey was not supposed to be there. Was he there looking for Jamie? Had something happened?

As this fresh wave of alarm swept over him, he finally began to take in Grey’s appearance. Face flushed, hair disheveled, the top buttons of his shirt undone… back pressed against Hector Darlymple’s closed door. Oh.

Jamie set his mouth into a hard line, not allowing his face to reveal the nature of the realization he’d just come to. He nodded his head politely at the younger agent before walking away. He could still hear the poor lad’s labored breathing by the time he reached the stairs at the other end of the narrow corridor. Good. Maybe this close call would bring Grey to his senses, he thought as he ascended to the apartment level of the residence.

It wasn’t so much the notion of a men lusting after other men that Jamie didn’t approve of- at the end of the day, he couldn’t have cared less what any of his agents did with their personal time. But Grey was Jamie’s best agent, his de facto second in command on the detail. If Jamie couldn’t be at Claire’s side for a time, there was no one he trusted more to take his place. He couldn’t afford for Grey to be dismissed from the service.

And dismissal would be the least of John Grey’s problems, should he be discovered.

His heart quickened as he reached the last landing and it wasn’t from exertion. He was long past denying the discernable way his body reacted when he got anywhere near her. Just knowing that she was there, on this floor, so close to him, reachable, set the very blood in his veins on fire.

That night, the last night on the Ridge, he’d surrendered himself to the single inexorable truth of his existence; he was devoted to Claire, and would be, until the day he died. He was sure this was his punishment for his failures in the War. That he should love a woman so fiercely, that he should want her to the point of maddening agony, that he should be so close to her, day after day, have the privilege to know her, to memorize the lines of her face, all the time doomed by the knowledge that he could never have her.

He could not call it hell- for the sound of her laughter was far too miraculous, too good for the condemned. But he couldn’t call it heaven either- for the agony of being near her, but never having her, was much too cruel for paradise. Purgatory was a fitting sentence, he often mused. Far more than he deserved.

Once he reached the door that lead into Claire’s private sitting room, he relieved the night watch agent and took his post. Now that he was officially on duty, the piece in his ear began to crackle with the voices of the other agents standing guard throughout White House.

He stood outside of her door, unable to stop the smile from spreading across his face as he heard the sounds of her, clamoring about in her sitting room. God, how he lived for moments like this. These quiet, peaceful moments where he was alone in the world with the woman who held his heart, whole in her hands. It was the most he would ever have with her. He knew that. And through the acceptance of that tragic truth, he was able to savor her, collecting a treasure of memories that he would keep with him forever.

He closed his eyes and listened, not needing to see her to know her every movement. He heard the clink of china and knew that she had just sat down her coffee cup, having taken her last sip. She liked her coffee black and piping hot. He heard the shuffling of paper and knew that she was refolding her daily newspaper, having been adequately informed of the state of world affairs. 

A month had gone by since those three weeks of bliss on the Ridge. Jamie couldn’t lie to himself. Those three weeks were among the happiest that he could remember. And that last night, he’d whispered to her in the dark and given her his soul. And she’d held it. Treasured it. Redeemed it.

He could not regret it, though he knew it was wrong to speak to her so. They could not be that way with one another, but god help him it was as easy as breathing.

He dreamed often of her. One recurring vision haunting him night after night. Claire, looming over him, her hair a curtain around him, her lips like satin against his forehead.

In another life, in this life, in every life…

His heart clenched with the memory. He’d imagined it, he knew. She had never really said such words to him. And yet sometimes he would lay there in the dark, and he would hear her so clearly, voice faint and quivering…

I am yours.

The door opened then and Claire appeared beside him. She was always bonny, but she had a particular glow about her in the mornings. Her face was flushed as she smiled at him, nodding her head a little in mocking formality.

“Good Morning, Mr. Fraser.” She all but giggled, eyes sparkly with mischief, and also, he thought, a little sadness. He dare not hope she miss their intimate lack of formality on the Ridge, but he liked to think she thought of it now and again.

“Mrs. Randall.” He replied in kind.

Without further preamble, they set off for the Blue Room where Claire would be hosting a reception for a society called the “Little Homemakers of America.” Jamie lost himself in barely suppressed laughter as he listened to Claire grumble about, expressing her displeasure at being forced to attend such an event.

They descended via the servant’s stairway. It was empty and secluded. When they came to the first landing, Claire stopped abruptly and turned on Jamie, stepping closer towards him, forcing him back closer to wall.

“Are you laughing at me?” She asked, eyes narrowed and glittering.

“Aye.” He sputtered out, not able to help himself. “Aye, I most certainly am.”

Claire smiled evilly at him, stepping closer, when the sound of footsteps descending towards them made her step hastily back again.

Elias Pound appeared on the landing then, and he seemed a bit surprised to see them.

“Oh, Fraser, there you are!” He gasped, looking mildly confused.

“D’ye need something?” Jamie asked.

**********

“You asked to see me Ms. Duncan?”

“Yes, Mr.Fraser. Have a seat.”

Jamie had just settled into one of the chairs facing Geillis when she pressed the intercom button on her desk. He hoped this wouldn’t take long. Elias was a good agent, sure enough, but he was always nervous to leave Claire under anyone else’s protection other than his own.

“You can come in now Mary.”

Mary Hawkins entered through a side door, the one that led into Claire’s private office. She was more pale and anxious than normal, which was saying something. She did not meet Jamie’s eyes, only silently sat in the chair beside him. Geillis cleared her throat.

“Are you familiar with mail code system Mr. Fraser?” She asked, getting down to business.   
Jamie quirked a brow. “Vaguely.”

“Right, well, as I’m sure you’re aware- the President and First Lady receive hundreds, if not thousands of letters every day. Most of the letters are sent to the OEOB to be stored until the end of the administration. However, those letters addressed with the code assigned to either Mr. or Mrs. Randall are sent to the executive assistants.”

She paused, looking at Jamie to ensure that he was following her.

“For example.” She picked up a sealed envelope on her desk. “Here we have a letter addressed to the First Lady. Do you see this number here at the bottom?”

Jamie nodded, seeing the small code scribbled at the bottom of the envelope.

“This is Mrs. Randall’s private mail code. So instead of being automatically sent away to storage, this letter was sent to Ms. Hawkins for further screening.”

Geillis looked to Mary who nodded in confirmation. Geillis continued.

“Now, as you can see, this letter is from Mrs. Randall’s mother-in-law. As is the case with most letters bearing a private mail-code, we are familiar with the sender, and the letter will require no further screening.”

Jamie narrowed his eyes, trying to figure out what on earth any of this had to do with him. Geillis tossed the unoffending letter to the side before reaching into her desk drawer and producing three new envelopes, all of them opened. She placed them on the desk in front of Jamie. All three were addressed the same:

Mrs. Frank Randall  
The White House   
1600 Pennsylvania Ave NW   
Washington, D.C.   
Mail Code: 59976

“These, on the other hand, were sent without a return address.” Geillis bit her lip nervously. Jamie’s eyes flicked briefly over to the blank top left corner of the envelope. “Mary followed protocol and screened the letters herself. She brought them to me this morning and…”

Geillis swallowed audibly and Jamie felt as though is heart was bound to beat out of his chest.

“I think you’d better take a look.” She finished in a small voice.

*****

Two hours later, Jamie found himself standing with Richard Brown outside of the Oval Office, trying to control his breathing. The letters that brought them here were tucked away in a folder. He could feel the vile words sucking all the air out of the room.

“And you’re sure you didn’t notice anyone suspicious while you were with Outlander in North Carolina?” Brown asked, pulling Jamie from his thoughts.

“No. I’ll be meeting with my agents later to brief them on the situation. If any of them saw anything of note, I’ve no doubt they’ll bring it to my attention.”

Brown nodded thoughtfully. “Good. I’ll be sure to have a few agents from Orion’s detail siphoned off to cover your posts. Take all the time you need.”

Jamie nodded his silent thanks. As far as bosses went, Brown was alright. As head of all White House Detail, he was in charge of all security protocol regarding the President and First Lady. He ran a tight ship, but deferred a great deal of autonomy to his seconds in command. As head of Claire’s detail, Jamie was given almost absolute authority on decisions regarding her safety. This situation, however, called for a great deal of involvement from the higher ups.

One of the President’s aides stuck his head out of the door.

“You can come in now.”

Jamie had been in the Oval Office before, several times, and yet he didn’t think he’d ever get used to it. Life had taught him the way that history, people, things that that had happened, both good and bad, had a way of sinking in to the very wood and fiber of a place. The Oval Office seemed to whisper the secrets of the men and women who had worked, sat, and struggled within its walls.

“Thank you for seeing us on such short notice Mr. President.” Brown stood at a respectful distance, hands linked beyond his back.

“Nonsense. When the head of White House security asks you for a meeting, you find the time.” Frank chuckled, making his way to the seating area in front of the desk. He took his seat on the rocking chair. “Please, gentlemen, have a seat.”

Jamie and Richard Brown took their seats on one of the adjascent sofas. Frank reached inside is suit jacket and pulled a small silver case from his breast pocket. Jamie had to remind himself not to wrinkle his nose as he put a cigarette to his lips and lit it in one fluid motion. He wondered absently if Frank smoked in front of Claire. Jamie knew she hated the smoke; it gave her terrible headaches.

Brown cleared his throat and handed Frank the letters, tucked neatly into a manilla folder.

“We’re still working to dig up more information on this, but we wanted to come to you with what we had.”

Jamie watched Frank’s face very carefully as he absorbed the words that Jamie himself had read for the first time only hours ago. Words that made blood run hot and furious in his veins. Even now he could feel the bile rising up in his throat.

He was ashamed to admit it, but the letters had ignited something within him, something he never knew existed. Primitive, feral, and dangerous. Even now it was a physical pain to not rise and sprint to Claire’s side. To throw her over his shoulder and take her someplace far away, where no one could find her. The Ridge, perhaps.

He could see it. In his mind’s eye, he really could. He wondered if he’d be able to wait until they made it to her bedroom, or if he’d simply collapse on top of her there on the hearth rug before the fireplace. His hands trembled with want and fear. He could almost hear the sound of fabric tearing as he tore the clothes from her body. Could almost feel her, warm and slick around him as he plunged himself deep inside of her, again and again, covering her, protecting her, claiming her.

He was sick with the shame of it. But he couldn’t help it.

He barely noticed as Frank finished the first letter, moving on to the next. All three were essentially the same. Vile. Unspeakable. Terrifying. Jamie had memorized them instantly without meaning to, the words pressing themselves into his mind where he was sure they would remain, tormenting him.

At some point Jamie became aware of the expression on Frank’s face. It was wrong. There was no rage. No terror. He looked annoyed certainly, and somehow… almost… amused?

“Well.” Frank said blandly as he finished the third letter. “The man’s got quite the imagination, I’ll give him that.”

And then he laughed. Laughed.

Jamie couldn’t stop his jaw from dropping. For a second he couldn’t even process it. Surely he’d imagined it. The man had not just laughed at letters in which a stranger had described in horrific, vivid detail, the many ways in which he planned to rape and defile his wife. It simply wasn’t possible. He glanced at Richard Brown, who appeared to be as shocked as Jamie was.

“Sir, I think it’s important that we take this threat very seriously.” Brown said, his voice low and heavy with respectful yet adamant authority. “I’ve been in this business a long time. This man has gone to great lengths to get your wife’s attention. And the fact that he was able to obtain this code is very concerning. Only few people have it. We have to consider him a threat. He’s clearly…. Well, he’s clearly unwell. And that makes him very dangerous.”

Frank nodded in acknowledgement though it was obvious he was only halfway listening, his mind was elsewhere. Jamie’s hands were on his knees, gripping, nails digging into his flesh through the fabric of his trousers.

“What should we do about then?” Frank asked, sighing a little in resignation. “There’s no return address, I don’t imagine much can be done to find him. And if you did find him, what then? As far as the law’s concerned, he technically hasn’t done anything wrong.”

Brown looked to Jamie. As the head of Claire’s detail, he should explain this. “Fraser?”

“Well, we can start by changing her mail code. Obviously. And beefing up her detail.” Jamie answered promptly. “Five more agents, at least. We’ll be screening guests to the residence a lot more carefully and we’ll have to limit her public appearances until we do track this man down.”

Frank raised his eyebrows. “So you do plan to track him down then?”

The corner of Brown’s mouth tightened. On matters of security protocol, the secret service had absolute authority. They didn’t need permission. Investigations, however, were another story. They had to be signed off on by the President.

Brown sat forward a little, rolling his shoulders subtly. “As I said sir, the fact that this man was able to get a hold of your wife’s private mail code has caused us a great deal of concern. I’ve a list here of all of the people who have knowledge of it.”

Brown produced a slightly crumpled piece of paper from his pocket, along with a tiny pair of round framed reading glasses. He perched them on his nose, and began to read.

“Your mother, Mrs. Randall the elder…. a Miss Hannah Moriston, a distant cousin, still living in England… a Miss Gloria Norton, who I’m to understand served with Mrs. Randall in the war… “

Jamie didn’t miss the way Frank tensed ever so slightly. He hated being reminded of Claire’s service, he himself being rejected from the military due to his notorious back problems.

“And a newer acquaintance…” Brown continued, peering down at the paper, “… a Dr. Joseph Abernathy, of Banner Elk, North Carolina.”

Brown looked to Jamie in silent question.

“Mrs. Randall spent some of her time in North Carolina volunteering at a wee clinic.” Jamie began, reveling in the confused quirk of Frank’s brow. This was news to him. “Dr. Abernathy is the only Doctor. I believe they’ve been corresponding about herbal remedies, Mrs. Randall being of a particular expertise.” He finished, smiling faintly with no small amount of pride.

Frank snorted. “My wife does have a rather silly little affinity with plants.”

Jamie scowled as Brown continued.

“Well, in any event, I have been in touch with all four of these individuals and they all assure me that they’ve never divulged the code to anyone and I’m inclined to believe them.”

“So….?” Frank asked, getting impatient.

“So. I would like to open an investigation. Specifically, I’d like to interview all of the employees in the mail room and try to figure out if he got the code from there. I’m confident it’s the only place he could have obtained it from.”

Frank was already shaking his head. “Sorry Mr. Brown but I can’t sign off on something like that.”

He stood, buttoning his suit jacket, as Brown and Jamie looked on in astonishment.

“I’ve got this bill I’m trying to push through congress and I can’t afford to let the news cycle be taken over by this kind of melodrama.” He leaned down, putting his cigarette out in the ashtray. “You know how it is fellas… those reporters would have a field day with this kind of story.”

Jamie was on his feet in a flash, fists clenched tightly at his side, alarming bolts of rage coursing through him, robbing him of rational thought.

“We understand, sir.” Brown’s strong, steady voice brought Jamie back to his senses. “We’ll figure something else out.”

Frank had already moved on, looking at a stack of papers an aide had just thrust into his hand.

“Sorry gentleman, but I’m absolutely buried in it today. ” He said, not looking at them. “You’ll forgive me if I cut our meeting short.”

“Of course, sir.” Brown said, standing.

Jamie followed him out, and was not able to stop himself from hurling his contempt for the President, in a quick snarl over his shoulder, just as they reached the door.

“Aye. We wouldna want to inconvenience ye with such nonsense.”

He caught the sharp look from Brown as he stormed out the door. Frank, of course, hadn’t noticed a thing.

Jamie’s only thought when he left the Oval Office was that he had to find Claire. Now. They weren’t allowed to look for this man, this horrid beast who fantasized about beating her, using her, defiling her. A man who might go to whatever lengths necessary to bring that fantasy to life. He was mad with the need to see her. To assure himself that she was safe. Whole.

For now.

**********

Tom Christie was leaning against a lampost across from the White House, smoking a cigarette, watching. She was reading his words now, he was sure of it, and the mere thought of it had him throbbing painfully with desire.

He wanted her. He was entitled to her. She had seduced him with her unabashed beauty. How dare she go about in public with her shoulders bare. From the moment he’d seen her, thoughts of her had plagued his mind day and night.

He had been working as a waiter at one of the inaugural balls where she had glittered before him, a goddess in the flesh. He was drawn towards her like a magnet. When she was ushered out of the room, she had brushed against him, her sweet warm skin only inches from him. And that was all it took. He wanted her. And he would have her. Or die trying.

How lovely would that skin look, he thought dreamily, covered in his marks, peppered black and blue by his desire for her? She wanted it. Wanted him. Of that he was absolutely sure. Nothing, no one, could convince him otherwise. And he wanted her. All of her. Her body, her flesh. More than anything, he wanted her fear.

It had been easy enough, getting the silly little code. The young blonde girl, a clerk in the mail room, had been putty in his hand. He hadn’t wanted to bed her, but he didn’t see any other way. And he would do anything to get to Claire. To take what was his.

And Claire was his. As he’d told her in his letters.

He wasn’t particularly worried with the small obstacle of her marriage. Once he got to her, he would find a way to fake her death. It wouldn’t be hard. And then, he’d take her some place far away where he could use her as he pleased for as long as he desired.

The time to make his move would come. But not tonight.

He flicked the cigarette to the ground, stomping it out with his foot. He was a patient man. He could wait.


	8. Almost Is Never Enough

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay guys!! This is the first chapter I’ve written since finals took over my brain (Chap 7 was 99% pre-written) and I’m a little stiff and awkward so bear with me! I’ll hopefully have my groove fully back for Chapter 9 (which will be out verra soon!) 
> 
> P.S. - FYI, we’ll be making another little history concession which I’ll explain at the end of the chapter.

Chapter Eight: Almost Is Never Enough 

August 29th, 1953

To say that the Banner Elk Free Clinic was a modest operation would be wildly aspirational. It had a small waiting room in the front, and then one other large room used for treating patients. The floor was green and white tiled linoleum and the overhead lighting flickered constantly as the clinic’s only Doctor, Dr. Abernathy made his way from bed to bed. The two nurses who assisted him did their best to help lighten the load, but the staff often had trouble keeping up with the never ceasing influx of patients. For many in the community, the clinic was the only source of medical care.

No one knew of Claire’s involvement with the clinic other than the locals and the clinic staff. She wanted it that way. This wasn’t about publicity for her. This was a way for her to help people, a place where she could find the freedom she needed in healing. 

Jamie leaned against the wall a few feet away from her, grinning to himself as he watched her work. Her brow was furrowed in concentration as she sat about treating an elderly woman who’d come in with a nasty burn from the stove.

Watching her, he felt calmer than he had in weeks. He hadn’t told her about the letters, not wanting to frighten her. But he’d become obsessive about her safety - more so than usual - and was sure she’d noticed. Now, though… now he could relax. They were here, on the Ridge, and the world with all it’s troubles couldn’t find them here.

His dreamy little reverie was cut short, though, when John Grey appeared at his side. “Fraser, could I have a word?”

“Aye, is everything okay?” He asked as John shifted uncomfortably in front of him.

“Yes, fine.” He cleared his throat. “I just wanted to speak with you about the incident in the White House last month. I’m afraid you might have jumped to the wrong conclusion and I-”

“Relax. I’m no’ in the habit of jumping to conclusions. Especially about things that are no’ my business.”

Grey relaxed visibly though his eyes were still creased with anxiety. “I just, well I would never want to cause any trouble Hector-I mean, Agent-”

“John. I’ve no’ said anything to anyone about it and I’m no’ planning to.”

“Thank you, truly.” John breathed, biting his lip a little in uncertainty before he spoke again. “It was very poor judgement on my part that caused the incident. I wouldn’t …. Well I wouldn’t want that to cause you to have doubts about my abilities as an agent.”

Jamie rolled his eyes, chuckling wryly. “Nah, I’ve no’ lost my faith in ye. Besides, I ken a thing or two about bad judgement…”

His words trailed off and his attention slipped once more to Claire. He couldn’t seem to take his eyes off her hands. They were tiny and delicate to the eyes, and yet so formidable as to be overwhelming. The graceful arches of bone and skin flowed seamlessly as she worked, as though God himself had infused His own power to heal and bring peace into her capable fingers.

He dimly noticed the wave of realization that washed over Grey’s face as he glanced from Jamie to Claire.

“Well…” John said, coughing a little, dragging Jamie’s attention back to their conversation. “I suppose we all have our secrets.”

For a moment, Jamie thought of denying the implication, if that’s what it was. Instead, he just shrugged and let it lie.

“Aye. I suppose we do.”

Grey nodded slowly, smiling wryly with understanding, before heading back to his post at the front of the building. 

Claire had moved on to the next bed now, and Jamie adjusted his position accordingly. He knew she needed space to work, but physical distance between them always made him anxious. Especially when they were in public. She was crouching at the bedside of a visibly fevered young boy, the back of her hand resting lightly on his forehead. A spark of envy coursed through him, alarming in its intensity. What wouldn’t he give to feel those hands on him?

An hour later Claire was in front of him, bouncing about like a wee rabbit as she dried her freshly washed hands.

“I’d like to go back to the house now!” She practically sang.

Jamie quirked a brow at her. “A little eager, aren’t ye Sassenach?”

He was a step behind her as the made their way out the front door of the clinic, towards the waiting car.

“Maybe just a little.” She giggled, eyes glittering at him in that way that made his stomach turn over.

“Any particular reason?” He asked, opening the car door.

She smiled coyly at him. “It’s a surprise!”

*******

“Well?” She said, stifling a giggle at the stunned- no- astonished gape of his jaw. “What do you think?”

He didn’t look at her. His eyes were glued to to the tall, broad chested, midnight black stallion that was grazing lazily in the paddock by the stable. He took several halting steps towards the fence.

“Wh-How-What?” He babbled, his voice sparkling with poorly contained joy.

“I’ve always wanted to learn how to ride.” She shrugged, aiming for an air of casualness. “Surely a horseman as experienced as yourself could manage to show me the ropes.”

He smirked at her before reaching for the paddock gate. “May I?”

She nodded emphatically. “Please.”

The transformation that befell him as he approached the beast was staggering. The strong, taut lines of his body relaxed and he moved with a sudden natural ease that she hadn’t seen in him before. And that smile… god, his smile made her want to fall to her knees and weep.

It had been on her mind since their first visit to the Estate. It was somewhat of a challenge, but she’d managed to execute her plans without Jamie suspecting a thing. In the months since they’d been here last, she’d hired a crew to fully renovate and bring the place up to working standard. Now with those renovations almost complete, the stable and paddock were barely recognizable. She’d also paid to have the tack room fully stocked and hired some of the finest farm hands available- sending them home early today so she could have Jamie’s reaction to her scheme all to herself.

Donas, as the horse was called, took to Jamie immediately. Trotting merrily over to him, greeting him with a merry whiny. Jamie offered him his hand.

“Ciamar a tha thu, prabanach?” He crooned, stroking the giant head fondly. (How are you, bonny lad?)

Claire’s breathing hitched. To hear Jamie speak in his mother tongue was truly a rare delight.

Jamie continued to run his hands over Donas, soothing him with sweet rumblings.

“Tha fìor-chaoin-fhàilte romhad an seo.” His voice was laced with heartbreaking tenderness. (You are very welcome here.)

“Could I trouble you for a lesson?” She called softly as he left Donas and returned to her.

He bowed courtly. “It would be an honor, Sassenach.”

Her answering smile nearly split her face. “Mr. Bug told me about some lovely riding trails that lead up to the highest ridge overlooking the valley. I don’t know about you, but I can’t speak of a better way to spend the afternoon.” 

He tilted his head a little in confusion, glancing from the lone horse in the paddock, back to her.

“But we’ve only the one horse?”

She could feel the blush burning in her cheeks but she soldiered on nonetheless. “Ah… well yes, only one that’s in commission any way. I’ve also purchased two mares that will be foaling sometime in the spring. They’ll be here once the stable renovations are complete.”

Jamie’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline and Claire held her breath, waiting for his reaction. When his face finally melted into that lopsided smirk she loved so much, she really thought her knees might give way.

“A flock of new horses and stable renovations? Sounds like ye’ve been a verra busy woman Sassenach.” He laughed, shaking his head.

“Indeed.” She answered primly, watching the graceful power of his muscles as they worked under the white cotton of his shirt. “So how about it, hmm? Surely that beast of a horse can carry both of us.”

His eyes widened slightly and Claire could see his throat working as he swallowed.

“Aye.” He finally said, voice low and hoarse. “To be sure, Sassenach.”

Roughly twenty minutes later he had Donas saddled and ready to go. When it came to the moment of truth, and Claire realized that she’d actually have to ride the huge, daunting beast of a thing, her throat went try and she couldn’t seem to move. She simply stood there, frozen, dubious gaze shifting from Donas, to Jamie and back to Donas again.

“A little nervous, Sassenach?” Jamie asked, not bothering to hide his amused expression.

She narrowed her eyes at him and set her jaw firmly. “I’m not nervous…” She insisted, marching to determinedly to the horse’s side. “I’m just… well… how am I supposed to get up there?”

Jamie chuckled loudly in response as he crouched a little before her and cupped his hands.

“Here… put your hand on my shoulder… give me yer foot…. That’s it… on the count of three, aye?”

Seconds later she was sitting wide-eyed in the saddle, breathless and ecstatically pleased.

“Ye alright lass?” He asked, resting a gentle hand on her knee.

“Oh, yes.” She beamed down at him. “Aren’t you coming?”

The moment that Jamie’s body settled in behind her, Claire had to bite her lip to stop from sighing out loud. His arms snaked around her to hold of the reigns and she shivered feeling the warmth of his breath on her neck.

“Ready?” He asked, an odd note in his voice that Claire couldn’t quite place.

She looked back at him over her shoudler, eyes narrowed in excitement and challenge. 

“Je suis prest.”

****  
The reached the high ridge around mid-afternoon, both of them silently taking in the view as they dismounted and left Donas to his grazing. They sat side by side in the soft grass, basking in the warmth of the sun.

Claire loved seeing Jamie here. It seemed such a natural place for him to be. His eyes were clear and open as he gazed out towards the horizon. She knew he was thinking of his home. The mountains, the rugged beauty of the place surely reminding him of his beloved Scottish Highlands. Claire couldn’t help but picture how his life had been there. He’d told her stories of course, but she wanted to know more.

“Tell me about your sister.” She said suddenly.

He swiveled his head back towards her, surprised. “Jenny?”

Claire nodded, encouragingly.

His lips curled with a small wistful smile as his eyes glazed over with memory.

“Och well where to start!” He mused, leaning back on his hands. “She’s a fierce wee thing to be sure. Loud, w’ a wicked temper. Never shy about telling ye exactly what’s on her mind, nor about telling ye how she thinks things should be, even if it’s none of her business. Not to mention she’s stubborn as a mule.”

“And?” Claire pressed on, giving him a knowing look.

“And…” He conceded, sitting forward again, inclining his head towards her. “And loyal, and canty, and strong.” He admitted, beaming with ill concealed pride.

“Sounds familiar.” Claire teased, winking at him.

He rolled his eyes playfully in response, before continuing. “She’s also brave…”

Claire watched his face change as memory took him off to someplace far away.

“I’ll never forget the day my mother died.” He admitted softly. Claire instinctively reached out and put a hand over his as he continued. “I was so wee, ye ken? And it all happened so suddenly. One minute Mam was wi’ child, and I was going to have a brother, and then…”

He shrugged his shoulders helplessly. “It didna feel real. My Da could hardly look at any of us, so lost in his grief as he was. After the funeral, I just wandered about the house. I hadn’t the slightest notion what I was supposed to do next. Without really thinking I ended up in the kitchen and there was Jenny.”

His eyes shone with unshed tears as his mouth quirked up in a small, heartbreaking smile.

“She was standing on a stool, wearing one of Mam’s old aprons, stirring something on the stove. Her cheeks were still wet with fresh tears when she told me to fetch Da and wash up for supper.” 

“I think that’s the only time I’ve ever seen my sister afraid.” He chuckled. “Well, except for her wedding day. But that was the good kind of fear, ye ken? The happy kind.”

Claire smiled wistfully. “I do.”

Jamie watched her, suddenly seeming hesitant. “How old were ye when ye married Mr. Randall? If ye don’t mind me asking.”

Claire took a huge breath before blowing it out slowly. “Eighteen.”

His head jerked up slightly in surprise. “So ye were married when ye left for the war?”

She nodded. “I was. I sometimes wish…”

She trailed off, suddenly feeling shy. He reached out and squeezed her hand briefly, gently, before letting go. Talk to me, he said without words. I’m here. Another deep breath.

“Sometimes I wish I had waited. I-The war was so… I was so different after. And it was hard for Frank to understand that.”

“Why did you get married so young?”

She shrugged. “After my Uncle died, the Randalls were the only family I had. They loved me, made me feel like I had a place to be. And Frank… well, he was just so different then.

“Different how?”

Claire pursed her lips, holding back all the things she wanted to say.

He was kind, attentive. Considerate. Loving. He made me feel wanted and beautiful. He was sophisticated, sexy and intelligent. And yet…

Her eyes drifted shamelessly across Jamie’s powerful form.

… he was never you.

“Sassenach?”

She jumped a little. “Oh, well… he…he was just less busy I suppose.” She finished lamely.

He quirked a brow at her, looking like he was about to press her more on the subject when a bone shattering clap of thunder roared around them and they finally noticed the dark black storm clouds on the not so distant horizon.

“Christ!” Jamie barked, leaping to his feet. “C’mon Sassenach, we dinna want to get stuck out here in that.”

They were halfway back down the trail when the storm hit. Once they’d returned to the paddock, Jamie had the horse unsaddled and turned out in a flash. But by the time they crashed through the stable doors, they were both soaked to the bone and cackling hysterically. It was the wonderful, giddy kind of senseless laughter that always comes on the heel of adrenaline.

“I don’t suppose they’d have left any towels in here?” She asked, still giggling, as she attempted to ring out the great sopping mess that was her hair. “If I don’t get my hair dry, it will be an absolute nightmare come morning.”

“I dinna ken about towels…” Jamie said sticking his head into the tack closet. “But this is better than nothing, aye?”

He reemerged with two freshly washed saddle blankets, tossing one of them at Claire. He sat down on nearby stool as Claire rubbed her head vigorously.

“It’s no use.” She sighed in frustration.

Jamie snorted. “Well don’t blame the blanket Sassenach. I think it’d take days to get that great curly wig dry, towel or no.”

Claire narrowed her eyes at him, suddenly feeling very mischievous. He was facing away from her on the stool as she slowly crept up behind him. He yelped when she brought the blanket down over his head, scrubbing his own mop of red with vigor and enthusiasm. He was gasping and breathless when she finally released him, backing away slowly, giggling with delight.

“Why ye little....” He chuckled breathlessly as he stood, turning towards her. “So it’s like that aye?”

The sound of Claire’s squeal echoed throughout the stable as he repaid her treatment with equal zeal. She struggled against him to no avail, pushing against his chest, trying to break free of his hold. Neither of them really noticed when they tumbled to the floor.

She was braced up with both hands on his chest, lying fully on top of him as the laughter slowly died away, leaving something much more potent in its wake. 

Her whole world shrunk down to this place, to this moment. There was nothing else in the world besides Jamie’s strong, powerful body beneath her. She’d never seen anything more beautiful. His curls, darkened to a rich mahogany by the rain were plaster against his forehead, his cheeks were flushed, and his full lips parted just slightly as his chest rose and fell beneath her.

Her hand rose up unbidden and she made no move to stop it. His eyes fell closed and his breath hitched as her finger drew a featherlight path from his temple, over his cheeks and down to his mouth. She ran it softly over his lower lip and when he groaned softly in response, it was her turn to shut her eyes.

She brought both hands to his shoulders as she lowered herself down onto him, closer and closer, moving slowly, so slowly. His hands came to her sides now, rubbing lightly up and down the length of her torso, memorizing her. Opening her eyes to peer down at him, she was met with a gaze that nearly did her in. He was holding nothing back. He wanted her. She knew it. That look in his eyes- hunger, need, agonizing desire - was mirrored in her own, she knew.

She closed her eyes again, a total slave to her need for him. Her face dropped closer and closer to his until she could feel his breath on her face. She licked her lips in anticipation, her heart beating like thunder in her chest as she-

“Mrs. Randall.”

She froze. Ice water. A bucket of ice water. That’s what it felt like. A second ago she’d been on fire, burning for him with an intensity that rivaled the sun itself. Nothing could have stopped her from having him then. Except that.

She was not Mrs. Randall here. Not to him.

She blinked down at him, dazed. He was wearing the mask now, closing himself off to her. The fire she’d seen burning in his eyes only a moment before had vanished. She climbed off of him slowly, with heavy limbs, as the truth of her reality came rushing back at her like a tidal wave. She couldn’t look at him as she sat down on the floor, leaning against the wall. Face buried in her hands, she heard him settle down next to her, several feet away.

It was hard to describe exactly was she was feeling. In truth, she was feeling too much. Humiliation, for one. She’d crossed a line. And she hadn’t the slightest clue why. She’d never behaved like that in her life. How did she get here? So consumed with her desire for a man that she’d all but had her way with him on a dirty barn floor?

And yet, more than anything, she felt pain. Anger. Betrayal. She had really believed there for just that moment that he wanted her. Wanted her the way she wanted him. She wanted desperately go way back to the way things had been before. Where she could have the fantasy of him. Now with his rejection, she couldn’t even have that.

“I’m sorry.” She finally said in a small voice, heavy, hot tears streaming down her face.

He made a small incoherent sound and turned her to face him. His eyes went wide when he saw her tears and his face crumbled, the mask falling away once more. His hands came up to cup her face, his thumbs tender and soft as they wiped her tears away one by way.

“Oh, mo chridhe…” He whispered, the tenderness in his voice causing her breath to hitch as she continued to cry. “Please… dinna weep… I canna... “

His arms came around her then, pulling her into his lap. Her hands shook between them on his chest as he pressed her against him, letting his forehead fall to rest against hers.

“I canna bear it.” He said finally.

His hand was like a vice on the back of her neck as she looked into his eyes, trying to understand, trying to sail through the storm she saw in them.

A sudden pounding on the barn door had them both springing to their feet in an instant.

“Fraser!” Came the muffled voice. “Fraser are you in there?”

Jamie heaved the door open, revealing a soaking wet Elias Pound.

“There you two are.” He exclaimed, sighing a little in exasperated relief. “We’ve been looking everywhere.”

“We were just biding in here until the storm passed.” Jamie explained, tension and strain written starly in the set of his shoulders. “Is something amiss?”

“Ms. Duncan has called, asking for Mrs. Randall.” He said, inclining his head toward Claire. “She says it’s urgent.”

****

Back in her bedroom, finally dry and wrapped in her bathrobe, Claire picked up the phone from the table by her bed and put the receiver to her ear.

“Geillis? What is it?”

True to form, Geillis cut straight to the chase. “I’m sorry ma’am, but you’ll have to cut your visit short.”

Claire’s heart sunk as she sat on the edge of the bed. “Oh?”

“I’m afraid so.” Geillis mumbled back, voice laced with sympathy. “The President has just secured a last minute summit with Castro. We leave for Cuba in two days. You’ll need to leave North Carolina first thing in the morning.”

That night, Claire cried herself to sleep, feeling more alone than she had in years. She made no effort to muffle the sound, not knowing that Jamie sat in the hall, leaning up against her bedroom door.

*******

Tom Christie was angry. Livid. He could not find her. He had no idea where she was. It was a complete mystery. The silly little blonde girl from the mailroom didn’t even know.

He stalked about his apartment, smoking cigarette after cigarette, trying to formulate a new plan, when a thud just outside his front door announced the arrival of his daily newspaper.

A few minutes later he found his mood substantially improved as he grinned down at the front page headline. It was time to move.

PRESIDENT AND FIRST LADY TRAVEL TO CUBA FOR HISTORIC SUMMIT

“Yes….” He said out loud to no one in particular. “I hear Havana is lovely this time of year.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, obviously Castro was not in power in 1953. I know a lot of people probably think I should have just set this in the 60s but I really wanted to post-war sentiment of the 50s. Thanks for playing along!


	9. Cuba

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mild content warning: brief descriptions/vague references to assault and violence.

He moved slowly, so slowly, shaking with restraint as he ran a hand down the pearly expanse of her skin, palms heavy and reverent, memorizing, moving down her side, feeling the faint suggestion of rib bone, past her hips and down her thigh, until he hooked a hand in the soft curve of her knee, hitching her leg high up on his waist.

He could hear her. He really could.

“Please…” She begged, breathy and desperate, dragging the word out, ending on a whine, grappling at him frantically. He swore he could feel her small, beautiful hands running down his back, caressing the gnarled flesh of his scars.

He all but collapsed onto her, needed desperately to feel the warm haven of her body pressed against every inch of his. His chest heaved with need as he reached up, threading his fingers up into that great beautiful mass of curls, his nails scraping her scalp.

“God, forgive me.” He begged, breath ragged, as he lost himself in the amber of her eyes. “I canna stop.”

September 1st, 1953

Jamie tumbled onto the floor, sweating and trembling, having no idea where he was. He blinked at the darkness around him, assessing the dim lines and hidden shapes. It didn’t take him long to remember that he was in the small room allotted for agents on Air Force one. He’d come here a few hours ago seeking a few hours rest on the overnight flight to Cuba. Not that he’d found any. Not really.

She’d haunted his dreams since the day he met her. Her easy smile and riotous brown hair would dance behind his eyelids bringing him joy and peace. Now… now the shapes of her tormented him like ghosts, the feeling of her body pressed against his haunting his flesh with the agony of memory.

Loving her as he did had never been easy, but being near her was enough to soothe the tearing grief he felt at not being able to have her. And now… now every time he closed his eyes he could almost feel her sweet round arse wedged tight between his thighs… could almost feel the pressure of her hips against him as she lie upon him, the sweet long lines of her body molding with his.

Before, his imagination had been enough. He could trick himself into believing that the fantasy of having her, of holding her in his arms was as good as the real thing. And now that he’d had it, he knew that no dream, sleeping or waking, could ever possibly compare.

He was disgusted with himself. With the lack of his restraint. The image of her tears, of her hurt, was seared upon his heart like a brand that he knew would never heal. He knew that what she felt for him, whatever it was, couldn’t possibly rival the way his heart yearned for her, but he knew he had hurt her with his rejection. And he hated himself for it.

And God, how his body betrayed him. After their encounter in the stable, he’d been aroused to the point of pain. How he did not take her then, he’d never know. In the days since, he’d been helpless to stop himself from imagining what could have had happened that night, were he not a prisoner to the chains of honor. He imagined the sweet relief of crushing his lips to hers, pressing her tightly against him as he pinned her down on the stable floor.

Sometimes these images were so vivid in his mind that he thought he’d truly go blind with need. He wanted her so much he sometimes found it quite hard to breathe. So much that his chest felt tight with it, his hands often trembling with restraint. So much that he woke in the night, to find himself already hard and stroking, hips spasming as he gasped and sputtered, giving in to the ferocity of his yearning.

A knocking on the door pulled him from his thoughts.

“Fraser, you in there?” Came Grey’s voice from the other side.

“Aye.” He replied, standing on shaky legs as the plane ebbed roughly with a small bout of turbulence. Christ, he hated flying.

“You’d better get dressed. We touch down in Havana in twenty.” Grey informed him before the sound of footsteps announced his departure.

Jamie dressed quickly, having stripped down to his boxers and undershirt for sleep. He opened the door, blinking at the harsh fluorescent lighting as he stepped across the hall into the small bathroom. He took only a few minutes to slick back his hair and splash water on his face before he stepped out again.

After landing he took his place at Claire’s side as they deplaned. Things were different between them now, Claire regarding him with a cool distance that felt like daggers in his heart. No greetings, formal or informal. No warm conversation or quickly stolen glances and smirks. He deserved such treatment from her, he knew. But he could not stop himself from missing her anymore than he could stop breathing.

The First Couple would be accommodated at the Havana Imperial, a hotel known throughout the world for it’s decadent luxury. As they pulled up in front of the great glittering structure, he found himself wondering how people could bear such opulence, knowing the Cuban people to be struggling and impoverished. By force of habit, he opened his mouth to say just that to Claire, clamping it shut again when he saw the tense, cold set of her shoulders where she walked just a step in front of him.

Two small girls, no older than 4 or 5 had stood waiting by the entrance, autograph books clenched in hands. They were both in their sunday best, sweet young faces scrubbed clean, hair combed and tucked back into tidy little pony tails. Claire went to them instantly, crouching down to their level and eagerly writing lengthy notes in their little books. She fawned over them, gave them her full attention. He couldn’t help but step closer when he heard her attempting to stumble through what she knew of Spanish, his chest warming when he saw how truly delighted the girls were that the First Lady was speaking to them in their mother tongue.

He was always in awe of her, but it was in moments like this that he truly could not believe she was real- her kindness, the overwhelming goodness of her was staggering. His heart broke all over again as he watched her, overcome with love and devotion for her.

So engulfed by feeling as he was, he momentarily forgot to hide it. He could not tear his eyes away as Claire bid farewell to the girls. When she turned back to him, she froze. He was burning for her so madly it was everything he could do not to take her in his arms and kiss the breath out of her. She wasn’t blind, and- for the moment- he wasn’t hiding.

“Darling! There you are!” Frank called, bounding towards them as he exited the hotel, his caravan having arrived a few minutes before Claire’s. He pressed a kiss too hard and too fast against Claire’s cheek. “Listen- I’ve got to run out to a meeting for the afternoon, but I’ll see you for the dinner tonight.”

Claire didn’t have a chance to respond before he was rocketing off towards the waiting town car.

“Welcome to the Imperial.” Came a low, rumbling voice from behind them.

Jamie tensed instantly at the sound of that voice. There was something about it. He turned and appraised the man through narrowed eyes. He was of average height, sturdy build, bellhop uniform perfectly pressed, pale blond hair slicked back, pale gray eyes trained with a salacious intensity that made Jamie instinctively step in front of Claire, shielding her.

“Can I help ye sir?” Jamie asked. 

The man put his hands up defensively. “Just here to help with the luggage. It’s my job, after all.”

Jamie tilted his head to one side and narrowed his eyes. “I think we can manage. But I thank ye.”

The man bowed his head politely before returning to the hotel lobby.

********

Tom Christie watched from the shadows of the lobby as the First Lady passed through with her entourage. Everything was falling into place.

He’d arrived in Havana yesterday morning with 24 hours to prepare. It had been a simple matter, really. The town was abuzz with the news of the impending Presidential visit. It took him almost no time at all to figure out where the Randalls would be staying.

The trick was finding his in with the Imperial. All rooms were booked and it wouldn’t do for him to just linger about in the lobby. When he encountered the young bell boy, a plan came to him easily. The young man was new on the job, and an American like Tom.

“I’ve always heard of the beautiful beaches, and I was looking for a fresh start.” He told Tom, just before he slit his throat.

He took the boy’s uniform and assumed his role just as the Presidential caravan arrived. She was so lovely and perfect, it was bliss being near her. Intoxicating. He couldn’t take his eyes from the taut snowy skin at her neck, hungry to mark it with the pressure of his hands.

The next obstacle, of course, would be the matter of her security detail. He had a feeling that the big red headed one was suspicious of him, but it was a non-issue. He’d have his way.

One the First Lady had left the lobby for her room, he snuck his way into the manager’s office. To his delight, it was unlocked and empty, and large brown leather ledger sitting open on the desk.

Claire Randall ~ Room 706

Frank Randall ~ Room 904

He wasn’t all that surprised to see that the Randall’s would not be sharing a room. He’d heard of the President’s reputation for enjoying other women.

He couldn’t wait anymore. He would have to move quickly. Tonight.

The Randalls would be attending a dinner with Castro and when they returned conditions would be ideal. The agents would likely be worn down and groggy, the President eager for the company of whores, and Claire would be exhausted, much too tired to fight him.

Tonight.

*********

Claire was helpless. Perfectly and totally helpless. She yearned for him, for his touch, for his voice, for his company. She’d spent the last three days stealing quick glances of him, always hungry for more. It was just so dreadfully unfair. His devastating beauty was often enough to render her a total brainless mess, and the overwhelming presence of him, that indescribable heat of him radiated so fiercely so as to set her on fire whenever he was near.

The dinner with Castro passed in a blur. She was numb to everything around her. Everything but Jamie. She dimly recalled that she’d dressed in a gown of pale blue with sleeves that hung just off her shoulders. She didn’t hear the murmur of voices around her, she didn’t taste the lavish 4 course meal, nor the constantly flowing red wine and champagne. All of her senses, all of her being, was centered absolutely on Jamie where he stood at the wall just behind her. She could feel him, the ghost of his touch reaching out and caressing her, running from the curve of her neck and across her chest, careening down to smooth across her thighs until she was trembling with her desire for him.

Unable to resist any longer, she slowly turned her head just so until her chin touched her shoulder, the candlelight catching in the dangling diamonds of her earrings. Searching for him.

Come find me, she called out.

When the time came for them to leave, Jamie was at her side as always, though he still didn’t look at her. Each time she was met with his stonily controlled face or the politely averted set of his eyes she wanted to cry out in desperation. She wanted it back. What they had. Even though it wasn’t what she wanted - what she needed - even though it would never be enough of him, it was better than having none of him at all.

They were silent all the way back to the hotel, as they had been for days. And when he delivered her safely back to her room, she pressed her forehead against the closed door, desperate to feel him once more.

Sometime later, she pushed away from the door in frustration, slipping into a pair of silk pajamas and settling herself into bed. She lay awake then for hours, eyes open, staring upwards and seeing nothing, knowing only emptiness that was not peace.

****

Elias Pound had a bad feeling. A very bad feeling. Something wasn’t right. Fraser had been more reluctant than usual to leave his post for the night. From the shadows under his eyes, it was clear enough that the man was in need of sleep. At first, he thought his hestitance was due to the fact that John Grey had been temporarily transferred to Orion’s detail for the trip to Cuba. He seemed to trust Grey a little more than the other agents when it came to the First Lady’s protection.

After a few minutes of prodding, he’d managed to convince Fraser to head to his own room for at least a few hours.

“I’ll be here!” He promised, gesturing to Mrs. Randall’s closed door. “And we have agents posted at both entrances to the floor. As always.”

Even after Fraser was long gone to his bed, he couldn’t shake the nagging feeling. Some time after midnight, he heard the door opening at one end of the hall.

Stepping in that direction just far enough to investigate, he narrowed his eyes and saw that it was one of the other agent’s on duty, apparently leaving his post.

“Beardsley!” He called out. “Where are you going?”

Beardsley smiled back at him, looking a little sheepish. “Oh c’mon man! Orion’s got a bunch of girls in the suite upstairs and he’s invited the agents to join in on the fun!”

“Don’t worry!” He added, seeing the look of distress on Elias’s face. “We’ll come back in a while, so you can have a turn!”

“We?” Elias exclaimed, now even more alarmed, as Beardsley took his leave, letting the door slam resoundingly behind him.

Sure enough, when he turned to the other end of the hall, he found that door unguarded as well.

He needed someone to call Fraser’s room. His hand had just reached up to his earpiece when there came a great ‘thump!’ on the back of his head, and everything went black.

*******

Jamie was restless as he lay in the dark in the room he’d been allotted on the second floor of the hotel. He was uneasy, being so far away from her. Five whole floors separating them.

The instant the shrill ringing of the phone pierced the silence, terror gripped him like a vise in his gut.

“Fraser.” He barked into the receiver.

“Why is half of Outlander’s detail in Orion’s suite?” John Grey’s voice asked him frantically.

All of the blood drained from Jamie’s face. “What?”

Ten seconds later he was bounding up the stairs, barefoot and clad in pajama bottoms and t-shirt, having only taken the time to retrieve his firearm before he bolted from the room.

When he saw Claire’s open door, his wame nearly twisted in on itself and he cried out, panicked.

“Claire!” He roared, as he burst into the room.

From then on, it was a blur. Little bursts of consciousness, overwhelmed by the flaming red of his fury.

Claire, forced on her back on the floor, struggling. Just before he reached them, the man reared back and struck her hard on the face. Jamie’s vision went black. 

He didn’t hear the man’s yelp of surprise as he lifted him bodily off her. Only dimly noticed when John Grey appeared in the room, announcing the incoming back up.

He lost count of the number of times his fists slammed into the bastard’s face before Grey managed to pull him off. He was frantic. Feral. He had no english. He growled when his eyes found Claire, curled into a ball, wrapped around herself in the corner, trembling.

He pulled her into his arms and crushed her so tight against him she cried out.

“Jamie!” He heard her call out frantically again and again as her hands fisted in his shirt. She was shaking and crying and so was he.

John Grey hauled the unconscious body into the hall just as Mary ran into the room, her mouth covered in shock. It was lucky, he thought dimly, that they would be the only ones to see them so, clawing and clinging to each other as they were.

It wasn’t until the hall outside the room became frenzied with agents and aides coming to investigate that he finally released her to Mary Hawkins’ care.

The next thing he knew, he was standing under the glaring fluorescent lights in a hospital hallway, dressed properly now in a suit though he couldn’t remember putting it on. He listened as John Grey and Robert Brown spoke in low voices in front of him, not making sense of any of it.

“Sir.” Grey said, suddenly straightening and nodding his head towards someone behind Jamie.

“What on earth happened?” Frank asked, eyes still glazed with drink as he approached them, his own agents skidding to a stop behind him.

Jamie didn’t listen as Brown explained to him what had happened. His whole body was contorted with rage. That this man - this odious, frivolous, unthinking bastard - put Claire’s safety in such alarming jeopardy had him seething to the point of madness.

Jamie would be forever grateful that, Grey, somehow sensing his growing fury, had managed to get a restraining hand on his shoulder before Frank spoke again.

“Who would want to hurt Claire?” Frank asked, genuinely perplexed. “She’s just my wife.”

Jamie was dizzy. Literally dizzy, the vision in the corners of his eyes blurring, his fists curling in on themselves without conscious thought. Somehow, Grey managed to haul him away before he physically assaulted the President of the United States.

He was still writhing against Grey’s hold after he’d pulled them into a secluded stairwell.

“Fraser, man, you need to get a grip.” Grey demanded, his voice low and commanding.

“I canna…” Jamie seethed, every possible emotion coursing through his veins, as his chest heaved and heaved.

“Breathe.”

And he did. Or tried to. He did the only thing he could think- he thought of Claire. Claire’s laughter, her smile, the way her hair caught in the wind, bathed in sunlight on the Ridge. After a few minutes, his breathing slowed.

A crackling in Grey’s earpiece got both of their attentions. Grey listened for a moment before his eyes flicked back to Jamie.

“Let’s go.” He said, opening the door, giving Jamie and encouraging smile. “Someone’s looking for you.”

He followed John, zombie-like until they reached the remote wing of the hospital that had been set aside for Claire. He said a silent prayer of thanks for Elias Pound as they passed the room where he lay, recovering from a nasty concussion. 

As they approached Claire’s room, Mary Hawkins said something to the agent standing post at the closed door.

After the agent had left, Mary turned her focus on Jamie. “Go on in. She’s been asking for you.”

Jamie’s throat tightened, but he hesitated, eyes darting to either side of the hall, afraid what someone might think if they saw.

“Don’t worry.” Mary smiled warmly at him, nodding her head at John. “We won’t let anyone in.”

John confirmed this promise with a firm nod of his head, gently shoving Jamie in the direction of the door. With a shaking hand, he reached for the door knob. A deep breath.

He moved in slowly, so slowly so as not to make a sound, in case she was asleep. She wasn’t sleeping, but her head was turned away from the door and she didn’t look up when he came in. He leaned back against the close door as he assessed the true reality of her assault in the light for the first time.

With her curly brown hair fanned out around her on the pillow, she looked almost the same as she always had. Claire. His Claire. And then he saw the bruises. A great blue smudge on the curve of her jaw. And angry red marks on her neck, legacy of the stranger’s grip.

He clapped a hand over his mouth, though it did nothing to stifle the sound of distress. She jerked her head towards him at that, only just realizing he was there. The second she saw him her eyes pooled with fresh tears and she made small, incoherent whimpering sounds as she reached out for him with shaking arms. He pushed off of the door without hesitation, staggering to her side, vision blurred by his own tears.

He took her in his arms and didn’t resist when she urged him up to lay in the tiny bed beside her. He dimly heard the sound of his shoes clattering to the floor as he slipped them off. He lay on his side nestled beside her, nose buried in her hair, breathing deeply. He lay a hand on her chest, looking for her heart just for the pleasure of feeling it beat beneath his palm.

“Don’t leave me.” She whispered, voice choked with anguish and fear.

He closed his eyes and took a great, shuddering breath. He reached out to tuck her hair behind her ear, leaning in close, pressing his lips against it.

“Never.”


	10. Christmas Magic

Chapter Ten: 

September 2nd, 1953 

Havana, Cuba

“No.”

Frank blinked back at her in surprise.

“What do you mean no?”

Claire shifted slightly in her hospital bed, drawing strength from Jamie’s invisible presence just outside the closed door.

“I mean no. I’m not staying, Frank. I need some time away.”

Frank’s eyes softened ever so slightly as he took in the state of her, battered and bruised, all but destroyed by the life he’d trapped her in. He placed a gentle hand over hers where it lay on the bed, and she had to remind herself to not recoil from him.

“I understand, Darling.” He crooned softly. “And I am so sorry this happened to you. After we finish with our visit here, you can take a few weeks off. Maybe you can go off and play around in the dirt at that Ridge place.”

She jerked her hand out from under his and fixed him with the steeliest glare she could muster through swollen lids, each mark of her struggle displayed on her face like a badge of honor.

“I gather you knew that this… this… this man was out there? But you refused to investigate?”

His eyes widened, and he jerked back as though struck. “I-Well-Hang on, how on earth did you know that?”

“Answer the question Frank.”

“Darling, you have to understand-”

She laughed bitterly. “Bold of you to assume that I HAVE to do anything here Frank. Do you think I don’t know how easily I could ruin your life? If I were to go to pack my things and move out of the White House, if I told the press even half of the truth of what this marriage is and the kind of husband you are-”, she took a breath, the sudden fury bursting from her with a ferocity that surprised her as well as him, “-your Presidency would be over. Done. Finished.” She snapped her fingers for emphasis. “Just like that.”

Frank looked as though he’d been hit over the head with a blunt object. She took a second to just revel in the sheer spiteful joy it gave her. 

“So.” She continued primly, folding her hands in her lap. “No. I will not be staying for the rest of the summit. I will be leaving Cuba. Today. I will be going to North Carolina. And I will be staying there until further notice.”

Franks nearly bugged out of his head. He stood up and began pacing around the room. He threw his hands up in exasperation. “Until further notice?” He sputtered out, face almost purple. “Claire, darling, you can’t be-”

“What are you going to do - stop me? You almost got me killed! Do you not realize that?” She roared. “My God, Frank. You were two floors away, pulling agents off my detail so you could shove whores into their laps while I was being beaten within an inch of my life!”

She let the words hang in the air for a while before speaking again.

“I need time. I need space.” Now she practically growled at him. “And unless you want to find out just how thoroughly I can fuck up your world, you’ll extend me the courtesy of a little goddamned privacy.”

Frank’s eyes narrowed on her- she’d gotten to him now. “You do realize that this summit isn’t just about you, correct? We could actually be changing the course of history here and you-”

“Spare me the dramatics, Frank.” She spat, rolling her eyes. “You and I both know that Castro is just humoring you with this summit. He has no intention whatsoever of cutting ties with the Soviets. I doubt very much that my presence here will inspire any change from that course.”

Frank was truly stunned now, his jaw dropping as he gasped loudly.

“I’m not going to make this a spectacle if you don’t.” She offered, more than ready for the matter to be settled. “In public, we’ll still be married. I’ll attend just as many events as necessary to stave off the rumors. But in private, we will live separate lives. That’s the only way we go forward from here.”

“Claire-”

“No. Goodbye Frank.”

*******   
Claire spent the next few months healing at the Ridge, finding comfort in the gentle thrum of the mountains as she filled her days tending to her ever growing garden, and her nights curled up in front of the fire. It was by unspoken agreement that Jamie took the room adjoining hers, while Mary took his old room on the lower level of the main house. Claire wanted him close.

That first night on the Ridge after the attack, Claire woke up screaming, trembling and drenched in sweat. The dream so real and vivid as though it was still happening around her.

A strange man, pulling her from her bed, demanding she come with him, spewing nonsense and vitriol that she couldn’t follow. A swift kick to his groin sending them both tumbling to the floor as he pinned her powerless beneath him. His breath was hot on her face, acrid with the smell of smoke and rum.

Seconds later Jamie was at her side, pulling her into his arms, whispering the sweetest nonsense in her ear. The terror of the attack still pulsing in her mind and heart. The memory of that sick realization that she was about to die because of a life she’d never wanted - it compelled her to do something she’d done all too rarely in her life: to ask for what she wanted.

“Will you stay with me?” She pleaded, eyes clear and sure. “Just until I fall asleep again?”

“Aye.” He breathed back, with no hesitation. “Always.”

She folded the duvet back as he slipped in beside her. She tried to fight the pull of sleep, knowing that he would leave again once she drifted off. She finally succumbed, lulled by the steady rhythm of Jamie’s breathing. Even though he was gone in the morning, she woke with a smile on her face, having not slept so well in years.

And so began a nightly ritual. They would go to bed separately in their respective rooms, until the nightmares came. When Claire cried out, Jamie was there. Arms strong and warm and safe as she drifted off once more, leaving her dreams to his keeping.

Over time, the nightmares stopped coming to her in the night. Jamie never did.

She conducted her business in Washington as quickly and infrequently as possible, standing by Frank’s side as always, poised and strengthened by the knowledge of the life she would all but sprint back to once the job was done.

After Thanksgiving, she enjoyed almost a full month of blissful peace. With the congressional session winding down for the year, Frank’s schedule was full with policy work and there were no social occasions that required her presence.

However, Christmas loomed in the rapidly approaching future like a hangman’s noose. Her stomach clenched at the thought. Frank. The Randalls- all of them expecting to spend the holiday with Frank’s loving wife. A White House spectacle of lights and deception. 

 

December 21st , 1953   
The Ridge

 

Claire went to bed that night, willing the world to stop turning as the day she dreaded so much - her trip back to Washington - loomed closer . She awoke that next morning to a world blanketed in thick snow and alive with new hope.

“They’re saying last night was just the beginning.” Mary explained over the breakfast table, eyes wide as she read the newspaper in her hands. “The real blizzard will hit sometime tomorrow.”

Once she was finished reading, she folded the paper, looking at Claire as she shrugged. “They’ll never get the roads cleared in time.”

“So, you mean we’re stuck here?” Claire asked slowly as the joy of the gift she’d been given slowly dawned on her.

*******

As usual, Jamie couldn’t take his eyes off Claire. She was ecstatic with the news that the impending storm would prevent their return to Washington for the holiday. She spent the better part of the day entangling Mrs. Bug and Mary- as well as a few of the agents- in her endeavor to whip the Ridge into - her words - “proper Christmas keeping shape.” By early afternoon, every banister was wrapped in garland and every window and door proudly boasted wreaths made from the branches of evergreens from just outside the main house.

He could hardly suppress his own elation, the thought of spending Christmas with Claire warming him to his core. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so enchanted by simple twinkling lights and holly. Even as he dragged an enormous spruce into the house from the forest, Arch grumbling behind him all the way, he could not stop smiling- thanking God for the gift he’d been given, to spend this time of good tidings and joy with the woman he loved more than his own life.

What happened in Cuba, combined with the time he’d spent on the Ridge with Claire since their return, had altered him down to the very fiber of his being. He knew they were rapidly approaching some point of no return, if they hadn’t passed it already. So overtaken in chaos was his mind that he often found it hard to think. His mind was constantly being pulled in a thousand different directions. He felt the iron grip of honor and duty, as strong as he felt the icy chill of fear, his instincts screaming at him to protect himself, to run while he could, after all, living with half a heart was better than living with no heart at all. And yet, getting stronger every day was the pull of her hold on him. He could no more keep away from her than the Moon could stray from its orbit around the Earth.

The only thing he knew for sure, though he refused to acknowledge it, pushing the glaring fact of it away to the shadowy corners of his mind, was that he could not deny her any part of himself. He would give just as much or as little as she wanted, eagerly siphoning off bits of his soul and trusting them to her keeping.

If loving her was to be his damnation, he’d gladly burn forever.

They spent the afternoon together, decorating the tree and sipping Mrs. Bug’s homemade spiced cider. Claire hummed along to the Christmas carols playing on the wireless in the corner. She danced around the tree, hands busy at the branches, bouncing along to the tunes of “Jingle Bells” and “Frosty the Snowman.” But when the song “Away in a Manger” began to play, she stilled, suddenly seeming introspective, almost, and smiling wistfully.

“Is something on your mind, Sassenach?” Jamie asked, watching her face as she came back to the present, his voice having pulled her from the grips of memory.

“Oh, it’s nothing.” She insisted, smiling a little sadly at him. “This song… it was one of my Mother’s favorites… ”

She shrugged, as though there was no hope for it. “It’s just always hard this time of year.”

Jamie’s heart broke just a little watching her grieve for her vanished family for what must have been the thousandth time. He did know the grief of losing parents. But he’d had a family. He’d lost his mother young, but he’d had his sister by his side and had the gift of knowing his father into adulthood. He was suddenly speechless, confronted with the depth of Claire’s loss - for she had very few such memories. Had never had a sibling to turn to.

Desperately he wanted to do something. Something that would bring back what memories she had. She’d spoken very little of her family- even less of any traditions they’d kept for the holidays. She’d only told him the one story about…

His brow furrowed in thought as he was struck with sudden inspiration.

******

“Where are we going?” Claire asked for probably the hundredth time as they trod through the heavy snow

“Just a bit longer, ye’ll see.”

Jamie had disappeared into the woods with Arch Bug sometime in the afternoon, not returning until after dinner. Then he eagerly insisted that she put on her warmest coat and mittens, and proceeded to practically drag her out of the house and down the trail that led into the wood.

They’d been walking roughly twenty minutes when he stopped her, unwrapping the tartan scarf from around his neck. When he brought it down around her face to cover her eyes, she stepped back, giggling.

“What are you doing?”

He bit his lip, looking down at his feet sheepishly before raising his gaze to meet hers again, eyes creased with the most adorable anxiety.

“Do ye trust me Sassenach?” His voice was low and husky. Heavy with meaning.

For just that moment, the lightness in the air transformed into something bigger. Something she didn’t understand, but knew down to the very marrow of her bones to be true. She swallowed. Hard.

“With my life.”

The transformation that befell his face at her words was truly stunning, his sweet mouth spreading in a wide smile across his face as the makeshift blindfold descended. The next few minutes was a blur of stumbles and giggles as Jamie led her through the final leg of their journey. Finally, he came to a stop, pulling her to stand in front of him. His hands came up to the knot securing the scarf at the back of her head.

“Are ye ready Sassenach?” He murmured in her ear, a distinctly nervous edge to his voice.

“As I’ll ever be.”

The scarf fell away and Claire’s jaw dropped as she took in the sight before her.

He’d brought her to a pond, hidden deep in the woods, surrounded by some of the thickest, tallest evergreens she’d ever seen. The pond had clearly frozen through, the reflective chilled surface gleaming and flawless.

“Wha-?”

“Wait right here. Dinna move.”

He walked a few feet away and picked up a box the size of a small book - something she recognized as a remote that connected to the power generators the Secret Service always kept on hand for emergencies. He looked back at her, mouth quirking up in a shy smile as he flipped up the big red switch, and Claire’s heart very nearly stopped. The trees around the pond came alive with a thousand twinkling white lights, the glow reflecting across the frozen surface of the pond as the world around them flooded with magic.

For just a moment, she was five years old again, remembering the man who’d built her her very own ice skating rink so she wouldn’t be sad on Christmas. Tears fell thick and icy down her face as she turned to the man who’d followed his example.

“Jamie…” She croaked, words failing her.

“Do ye like it?” He asked, eyes eagerly searching hers as he came back to stand by her side.

She half laughed, half sobbed, breathless with emotion. “It’s beautiful, Jamie, I…” She pressed her fingers to her pursed lips, trying and failing to maintain her composure. “How did you… I mean- this must have taken hours!” She sputtered, gesturing wildly at the magic surrounding them.

“Aye, well…” He blushed, pleased. “I did have some help. We’ll be owin’ auld Arch something fierce in overtime.”

She laughed again, wiping tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand.

“Jamie, this is…” She trailed off, unable to find the words.

“I’m afraid we can’t use it just yet.” He admitted, sheepish. “I wasna able to track down any skates. We’ll probably be able to find some tomorrow, but… well, I just couldna wait to show ye.”

The rush of emotion hit her unawares and she felt her face crumble under the weight of it. She turned from him, hands clamped tight over her mouth to muffle the quake of her sobs.

“Christ, Sassenach!” Came Jamie’s frantic voice from behind her, as he placed two firm hands on her shoulders. “I’m sorry lass, I didna mean to upset ya!”

She didn’t yield to pressure of his hands on his shoulders as they tried to turn her back around, though she shook her head vigorously in rejection of his apology. The fact that he was apologizing for such a beautiful gift igniting yet another wave of overwhelming feeling.

“Sassenach, please, I…”

The desperate, pleading note to his voice brought her back to herself and she turned to him.

“What’s wrong?” He asked, hands coming up to cup her cheeks, seemingly without conscious thought, thumbs arching out to wipe her tears away.

“Nothing.” She insisted, as her lip trembled and tears continued to fall.

“What is it Sassenach?” He persisted.

“It isn’t fair.” She finally spat out.

“What isn’t fair?” His hands coming down to hold her lightly at the top of her arms.

“For you to… to.. be like this…. And still not…. God, Jamie, I swear it’s like torture.” She breathed out raggedly as she tried in vain to break free of his grip. “You make me… but you don’t…” She gritted her teeth, breathing heavily, trying to regain control of her emotions.

“Yer not making any sense Sassenach.”

His eyes bored into hers, demanding her secrets, compelling her honesty. She was helpless.

“I thought I was used to not being wanted.” She sobbed out, eyes wide and streaming as she continued to struggle against him. “Everyone- Frank, the Randalls, the press- they- they all want Mrs. Randall….” Her breath was starting to hitch as she cried harder, her voice strained, almost keening. “But no one’s ever wanted me.”

She thought she heard Jamie’s sharp intake of breath as she pressed on, unable to close the floodgate that had opened within her. “After a while it stopped bothering me. I could live with it. But then you… you do things like this that make me want you so much that I can’t breathe, but you don’t… don’t…” She couldn’t finish, any other words choked by emotion.

Jamie released her then, hands falling to his sides in shock. “What?” He panted, lips parted, eyes wide and shining.

Claire panicked as they weight of the words she’d uttered descended upon her. “Nothing. Nothing- I- please forget I said anything.” She gasped out through tears, her head ducked. already protecting herself from his rejection. She turned from him again, moving as quickly as her feet would carry her in the heavy snow.

“No, ye canna- please wait!” Came his voice from behind her, desperate and heavy with emotion. She trudged on, the instinct of self-preservation driving her every step.

“Claire!”

She froze. He had used her Christian name on exactly two other occasions. Both of which involved some sort of imminent threat upon her life. But now… She turned. Slowly. Peering up at him through her lashes, rooted to the spot as he took several steps towards her.

“Do ye really think I dinna want ye?” His eyes were intent on her, incredulous, raging and burning with an intensity that made her knees weak.

She swallowed. “Do you?”

He came closer to her. Two steps. One more. And then they were little more than a hairsbreadth apart, arms hanging by their sides. He dropped his face down closer to hers. “I have no’ breathed wi’ out wanting ye since we met Sassenach.” He declared in a slow, deliberate voice. “Do ye really no’ ken that?”

She blinked. Once. Twice. Her head buzzing and heart pounding as she brought her hands up to link behind his neck. She moved slowly. So slowly, she did not feel real. His chest heaved with the force of his breathing and when she lightly brushed her nose against his, his eyes squeezed tightly shut as he swallowed audibly. Right before her mouth reached his, his lips parted, just slightly, as though he couldn’t help it. She could taste his breath on her tongue. She moved a little closer. When she felt him tense, she tightened her grip in the hair at his nape, squeezing her own eyes shut, refusing to let him break the spell.

“Please. Don’t tell me to stop.” She breathed into his mouth. “I don’t think I can.”

He choked out a breathy laugh. “I dinna think I can either.”

She whimpered in relief and brought her mouth to his in a fiery collision that took the breath from her lungs and turned her bones to jelly. His hands remained by his side, but for the moment she didn’t care. She was kissing him and he was letting her. He was kissing her back.

She hadn’t realized she was forcing him to walk backwards until she heard his back hit the tree with a thump. She pressed her body against his, feeling wanton and not bothered by it in the least.

“Sassenach. Ye-we-god- ah, we can’t.” He grunted between kisses.

She ignored him. “I want you so much Jamie.” She whispered, biting his bottom lip.

Something in him snapped. No longer a passive participant, he gripped her firmly by the hips and spun her around so she was the one pressed against the tree. He came for her mouth in a flurry of lips and tongue and teeth. Claire was positive that, if not for the tree, she would have surely collapsed. She felt like she was on fire. His lips left hers and he made a trail to the curve of her neck, sucking hard and digging his teeth into her flesh.

Much too soon, he pulled his mouth away, letting his forehead rest against hers. The silence stretched out around them, languid and unhurried as they held one another, basking in the joy of relief and possibility.


	11. That We Two May Be One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW

December 21st, 1953

Later, neither of them would ever be able to remember how long they stood there pressed against that tree, holding one another. It felt like forever and no time at all.

“Can I ask you a question?” Claire asked suddenly, breaking the silence, angling her face to rub her nose lightly against his.

“Of course.” Jamie huffed in reply, eyes still closed, still a little breathless from the kiss they’d shared.

“I’ve only ever been with Frank so I don’t know how… if this…” She closed her eyes, searching for the right words. “What it is...between us I mean… is it.. Well is it…”

Jamie’s eyes opened as he realized what she was trying to ask, the sweetest smile spreading slowly across his face. “Nae, Sassenach. What it is between, it isna usual. It’s different.”

She smiled, heaving a great contented sigh, her arms tightening around him. “Oh, good.”

“I’ve known the pleasure of a woman’s company more than once”- he began, pretending not to notice how her mouth compressed briefly - “But you, my Sassenach?”

He pulled his forehead back from hers, putting a finger under her chin, tilting her face up to look at him. “I have wanted ye since that first day when ye fell into my arms, clutching a bottle of whiskey. And I’ve loved ye since that first night in the White House when ye wept in my arms.”

Her eyes swam and she reached out to put a hand on his chest, over his heart. “I think I loved you then too.”

He smiled down at her, adoration and disbelief combined, bringing his lips down to hers. She stopped him though, putting her hands on his shoulders, holding him back just a little. She saw the brief flash of panic in his eyes, and brought a hand up to his face, curving her palm around his cheek, smiling to herself as he leaned almost unconsciously into her touch.

“I just need to know…” She began, biting her lip. “Why didn’t you let me kiss you, that night, in the barn?”

He closed his eyes for just a beat, before he looked down at her again, taking her hand from his cheek, and pressing her wrist to his lips. “I wanted to. God… ye have no idea…”

She gently extricated her wrist from his grip, bringing both hands to take his face now, forcing him to look at her. “Then why didn’t you?”

He swallowed. “Because ye were no’ mine. I didna think I could bear it...”

Tightening her hold on him, leaning forward to press her lips to his, kissing him with all that she had, silently whispering the most hidden secrets of her soul. When she finally broke away, she took a deep breath and brought her mouth to his ear.

“Do you remember that night.. the night you told me about France? I sat by you for so long after… and I told you… I said….”

He pulled back in surprise, his eyes popped open wide as he gaped at her in disbelief. She saw the memory wash over him like rain.

In another life… in this life… in every life…

“That was real?” He croaked, his voice husky and raw with emotion.

“Yes. It was real.” She half laughed, half sobbed, barely audible. “So are we. So is this.”

He smiled as he kissed her again, slow and unhurried, his hands roaming and learning, eager to memorize the shapes of her.

“Where do we go from here, Sassenach?” He asked breathlessly when they finally came up for air.

“What do you mean?” She mumbled, dazed.

“Yer still married… yer still the First Lady… how do we...?”

She blinked rapidly as sense came back to her. “Oh… right. That.”

She sighed heavily as she lightly traced the curve of his jaw with the tip of her finger. “Frank and I came to an agreement. In Cuba. That we would stay married publicly but that in private we would live separate lives. It’s not… well, it’s not dishonest for us to be together Jamie. At least not to Frank.”

He quirked a brow at her, his mouth set in a firm line, though she swore she saw a faint flicker of hope in his eye.

“If I thought I could leave now, I would. Frank doesn’t love me, but he needs me- or rather, he needs the image of us together, as the perfect married couple-” she spat out with contempt “- to secure a second term. If I try to go now, he’ll do everything in his power to make me- make us - regret it.”

Jamie nodded solemnly in a silent agreement.

“But after the reelection…” she continued, her voice growing lighter with hope for this newly emerging future. “No matter the outcome, I will leave him. We’ll divorce as quietly as possible. And then you and I… well, we… we can be together…” Her voice breaking slightly, thick with emotion, “We could even go to Scotland and...well, that is- I mean, if you’ll have me... “ She amended, dropping her eyes, suddenly self conscious at her presumptiveness.

“If I’ll have you?” He jerked back, incredulous. He considered a moment before he spoke, biting his lip as if he wanted to tell her something, but wasn’t sure if he should. Finally, coming to some sort of decision, he took a deep breath, taking both of her hands in his, holding them to his chest. “That night- the night I told ye of my time in the war- I spoke to ye… in the Ghàidhlig. Do ye recall?”

She furrowed her brow. “I thought I heard you mumble something but I wasn’t sure…”

“S ann leatsa a tha mise gu brath, ged a tha iallan mo chridhe gam riasladh.” He whispered, pressing his lips to her fingers, and then, translating, “I am yours forever. Though it is tearing my heart apart.”

She let out an involuntary, incoherent sound, pressing herself closer against him.

“I never want to tear your heart apart.” She whispered, tears slipping heavy and slow down her cheeks. “I only want to put it back together again.”

“You do, my own.” He breathed back, leaning in to press his lips to her cheeks, kissing her tears away. “In more ways than I could ever explain.”

“And now…” He said, pulling back to grin down at her, shaking his head in wonderment. “Now ye ask me if I’ll have ye? Christ, Sassenach. It’s all I can do not to take ye where ye stand.”

A sharp intake of breath as she moved her hands back to his nape, gripping tightly.

“I want that.” She all but moaned. “I want us to be together in the best way that we can, until we can be together for real. It’s only a few more years… I know it will be hard, certainly not ideal…but... ” She swallowed, summoning her courage. “Would you be willing to try?”

He smiled sweetly, pressing his forehead to hers. “There is nothing I wouldna do for ye mo chridhe.”

“What did you say?” She asked dreamily, breathing him in.

“Mo chridhe.” He repeated, tenderly, as he reached out to tuck a piece of hair behind her ear. ”My heart.”

Her eyes brimmed with tears at the endearment as she giggled back to him. “I like it when you speak gaelic.”

“Aye?”

“Aye.” She confirmed, playfully butting her head against his.

“Well now that you mention it Sassenach…” He began and she could feel his heart quicken in his chest. “I ken a few other gaelic words- special words, ye ken- that I could… well we could say together... I could teach them to ye… If yer willing?”

He searched her eyes anxiously as her brow furrowed in confusion.

“What kind of words?”

He took a deep breath. “I want the same thing ye do Claire. I want ye and I dinna want to wait until ye are free of Randall to have ye. And I ken I canna do right by ye, in the eyes of the law anyway, until then, but I… well, I wouldna feel right, havin’ ye, without makin’ sure ye ken what ye mean to me.”

“Jamie-”

“I ken it sounds silly.” He smiled wryly, eyes dropping to look down at his feet. “But it’s called handfasting. It’s an auld Scottish tradition. I’ll no’ bore ye w’ the whole history of the practice, but essentially it’s where two people clasp hands and declare themselves to be one, in body and soul.”

Claire’s eyes welled with tears. That this man- this incredible, beautiful man- should want to make such a commitment to her was overwhelming.

“I ken it’s no’ the same as marriage. No’ exactly anyway.” He whispered. “But… this- what it is between us- I need it to be real. For us. Maybe the world canna ken - not yet anyway- that I’m yers and yer mine… but we can ken it for ourselves, aye?”

She nodded, understanding completely. “Yes Jamie. I want that too.” She sobbed, holding him so tightly against her, she thought she would break. “Can we do it now?”

His face broke out in an exalted smile as he grasped her by the back of the neck. “Aye.” He whispered against her lips as he pulled her in for a kiss that left them both reeling and breathless. “But let’s go inside first, hm? It’s freezing out here.”

********

They stood facing each other in front of the fireplace in Claire’s bedroom, the crackling of the roaring fire the only sound other than the ragged breaths and pounding hearts. Stripped of their outer wear, they could have truly been a newly married couple, both of them eager and tentative as they were. Jamie wearing jeans and a forest green plaid button up, hair a little damp from melted snow. Claire wearing a crisp white blouse with long flowing sleeves, a black skirt and thick winter stockings, her cheeks still pink and rosy from the cold.

The Bugs had returned home for the evening. Mary slept peacefully in her own room downstairs. The other agents stood at their posts outside, or slept in the cabins far from the main house. They might as well have been the only two people in the world.

“How do we do it?” Claire asked huskily, taking a step closer to him.

Jamie watched her, mesmerized, as he cleared his throat. “We put our hands together - wrist to wrist - like this -” he explained, taking her hand in his to demonstrate, “- and then we say the words. Together.” He bit his lip then, looking away from her, unsure. When he brought his eyes back to her, he continued, haltingly. “Tis a blood vow, ya ken? So traditionally… there’d be a small cut, for both of us… verra small of course, but if ye dinna want to-”

She squeezed his hand tightly in hers, stopping his words. “I want this Jamie. All of it. Please.”

His face welled with unspeakable emotion as he squeezed her hand in return. “Aye.”

She scarcely felt the tiny pocket knife as it drew lightly across her wrist. All of her senses were full of Jamie. Pressing his own tiny cut to hers, he bound them together with the tartan scarf he’d worn earlier.

“Say the words after me, aye?”

She nodded, throat thick and head swimming. He spoke slowly and clearly, the words flowing from his mouth as smooth as velvet. After every line, he paused giving Claire time to stumble through her best imitation.

“Is tu fuil ‘o mo chuislean, is tu cnaimh de mo chnaimh.   
Is leatsa mo bhodhaif, chum gum bi sinn ‘n ar n-aon.  
Is leats m’anom gus an criochnaich ar saoghal.”

When it was done, he untied their hands and placed a featherlight kiss just above the new scar on her wrist as he drew her close. She stood on her tiptoes, craning upwards to brush her lips across his.

“What did it mean? What we said...”

He cleared his throat, speaking the words with as much feeling in english as he had in Gaelic.

“You are blood of my blood and bone of my bone.” He whispered, drawing his lips over the bones of her face, hovering just so, not kissing, only feeling. “I give ye my body, that we two may be one.” He snaked a hand between them to grab her hand, bringing it up to clasp with his, pressed against his chest. “I give ye my spirit, till our life shall be done.”

Her breath hitched as she threw her arms around his neck, pressing herself tightly against him. They stood there for a long time, holding each other, until Claire arched up to press her lips to his ear.

“Take me to bed Jamie.”

He jerked back, peering down at her, smiling with desire and mischief. “To bed…? Or to sleep…?”

“Well…” She intoned, smiling suggestively at him with trembling lips.

She pulled his face down, needing urgently to kiss him. Just before impact, he pulled back, holding his lips just out of reach, totally unbothered by her hands in his hair, pulling with all of her might. There was a sudden hesitation in his face that alarmed her.

“What is it?” She whispered, tightening her hold.

His brow furrowed, a million different emotions passing across his face .“I need...I….” he broke off, squeezing his eyes shut.

“What do you need Jamie?” He could have it. Whatever it was. She would give it willingly.

His eyes snapped open. “I need you to say it. Right now.”

“Wha…?”

“Say it Claire.” He growled, hands gripping her tightly. “Tell me that yer mine.”

Suddenly, it clicked. She realized what it was that he needed. Not just to know that she was his, but to claim her. She felt suddenly separate from herself when she removed her hands from his hair and slowly backed away from him. She stared him down, back just inches from the wall, as she unbuttoned the top button of her blouse. His eyes bored into hers but she did not look away. She held his gaze, unflinching.

“Make me.”

She couldn’t stop her satisfied grin at the sharp intake of his breath.

“What?”

She didn’t break her gaze away from his when she kicked off her shoes. “Prove it to me.”

Realization dawned on him, blooming up slowly like the rush of fire in his cheeks. “You mean…?”

Still holding his gaze, she reached up to remove the pins from her hair, allowing the riotous curly mess to fall around her face and past her shoulders. “Show me who I belong to, Jamie.”

Everything seemed to happen at once. 

A deep, earth shattering, groan from deep in his throat, “FUCK!” as he lurched forward, slamming her back against the wall.

There was sharp thud beside her head as his palm made contact with the wall, making Claire jump. His mouth was on hers then, and she opened to him instantly, there tongues meeting in a desperate struggle for connection and relief. She let out a surprised whimper when he roughly ripped his lips from hers. He leaned back only the slightest bit, reaching for her shirt, Claire’s fingers automatically raising to fumble with the buttons, hoping to aid him in the process.

He chuckled darkly at her and shook his head, looking her directly in the eye.

“We dinna have time for that.”

Without breaking eye contact, he ripped the shirt open in one swift motion, sending buttons clattering to the floor, along with Claire’s jaw.

After discarding his own shirt, he was on her again, hands busy at her skirt, rucking it up until it bunched up at the curve of her hips, exposing her soft white thighs contrasting so perfectly with her lacy black stockings. His breath hissed a little at the sight, as he dropped to his knees, hooking one leg up over his shoulder, steadying the other with his hand.

He ran the tip of his nose up the length of her, inhaling her scent and basking in the softness of her quivering flesh. Moving with agonizing slowness, he finally came to rest with his chin flat against her pubic bone, looking up at her innocently through auburn lashes.

His voice was low and heady. “Is this what ye want?”

For just a moment, Claire was sure she would come apart on the spot. She swallowed hard, and somehow managed to recapture enough presence of mind to answer him.

“Y-yes. Please.”

He took his time, retracing his path down her, this time using his open mouth, torturing her with the wet warmth of it. The feeling of his lips and breath through the thin layer of lace had her back arching wildly off the wall.

She hooked a pair of shaky thumbs into the waistband of her skirt, only to have her hands pushed flat against the wall by her sides.

“Christ, Jamie.” She gasped, dangerously close to sobbing with need.

Jamie’s mouth was moving against her as he spoke, the vibration of his deep voice rippling from the top of her scalp to the tips of her curling toes.

“In case you haven’t figured it out already…” He half growled, half chuckled as he stood, bringing his forehead to rest against hers-

“It’s gonna be a verra long night.”

She barely had time to squeak out a response before she was in his arms, legs wrapped about his waist, her fingers twining tightly in the fiery mass of his hair. They sounded like a herd of cattle, trodding across the room, bumping into furniture, putting hands up on the wall to steady themselves.

Jamie was moving like a man possessed, his teeth fastened in the curve of her neck as they fell over onto the bed, bouncing a little on impact. Claire made another attempt to rid herself of clothes, this time reaching for the straps of her bra. And, yet again, Jamie’s hands were there to stop her, pushing her wrists down, pinning her flat against the mattress.

“Ye want me to show ye who ye belong to aye?” He snarled, his mouth to her ear.

Claire’s vision was going black in the corners. Never in her life had she been met with such overwhelming sensation. He was everywhere, all at once. He was her every thought, he commanded all of her senses. Her chest heaved madly as she writhed beneath him, struggling with no real desire to get away. She was drunk on the sheer power of him as he loomed over her, his eyes wild with need and yet so disarmingly focused and clear, intent on her as a wolf on a lamb.

“Tell me. Tell me what ye want.” He hummed, closing his teeth onto the round of her chin. She snapped her eyes shut, making loud, involuntary, incoherent noises with each heaving breath, her mind coming apart at the seams, feeling everything and nothing other than the rasp of his stubble against her cheek.

“Claire.” He growled impatiently, sinking his teeth into her earlobe, making her gasp.

“Christ Almighty.” She huffed, still writhing madly, trying to make sense of the pulsing chaos racing around her and within her.

He snorted. “I thought we’d agreed to do away w’ the formalities Sassenach. Jamie will do just fine.”

The mischievous curve of his smirk made her hips buck involuntarily up into him, his eyes darkening in response. She felt as though some massive gate was straining to open inside of her, revealing the deepest, most secret desires she kept locked away within. She was right there, she was so close, and she couldn’t hold back much longer. His hand, big and warm and soft and strong, grasped her chin with inexorable gentleness, forcing her head up and towards him, though she kept her eyes stubbornly shut.

“Look at me mo chridhe.” He whispered, tender but firm. “Dinna look away.”

It wasn’t a request. She opened her eyes, looking at him, seeing him, seeing a love and devotion that matched her own reflecting back at her. His hands were like water against her skin, flowing seamlessly as he memorized and learned every inch of her, finally stripping her of her clothing before disposing of his own.

When he finally sank into her, their cries rang out through the shadows on the walls, hungry and desperate.

“Oh god!” She keened loudly, as he took her hands and pinned them once again flat against the mattress.

For as long as she lived, she would never forget the way he looked as he loomed over her. His brows furrowed, his jaw clenched tight, eyes flashing, raging with desire. He was everything at once. Violent and gentle. Animal and human. Frantic and (painfully, agonizingly), controlled.

The entire world shrunk down into the smacking, pounding, friction of their bodies as he slammed into her again and again, his pace relentless; somehow both too fast and too slow at the same time. His hands left hers and came down to press her thighs flat against the mattress, his voice was hot and breathy in her ear.

“Tell me, Claire.” He snarled, hissing as she dug her fingernails deep into the flesh of his back. “Tell me who you belong to.”

He brought her to the peak again and again, never sending her over, not willing to let her go there until she knew she was his. And she did know. She looked up at him, transfixed on the ocean of his eyes, stormy and raging, and yet so warm and safe. He saw every bit of her, down to the very cells that she was made of. She couldn’t hide from him if she wanted to. And she didn’t want to.

And so when he again demanded-

“Tell. Me.” His words accentuated with the brutal thrust of his hips

\- she yielded.

“I’m yours!” She wailed, her eyes holding his, not flinching away, even as tears of joy and relief flowed freely down her face.

He let out a loud, growling whimper and his hips went mad against her, thundering with impossible power.

“Say my name, Sassenach!” He roared, his fingers pressing the promise of bruises into her flesh. “Say my name, goddamn you!”

“I’m yours, Jamie!” She cried out, quaking madly, back arching, as the storm of her release descended on her, setting each of her nerves aflame. Bursts of light popped before her eyes and she tightened briefly before going completely limp, Jamie’s name the only sound her lips seemed able to form as she cried out to him again and again.

“Aye, that’s a good lass.” He grinned triumphantly down at her, hot sweat dripping from his brow and landing on the sensitive flesh of her chest and face

For a moment she thought he might slow his pace and give her time to recover. He doubled it.

“Tell me again!” He demanded once more, forehead dropping to press hard against hers, his body moving like a tremendous machine as he thrust into her again and again again.

“J-J-” was the best she could do, her brain no longer capable of coherent thought as he stripped her of consciousness and existence, hurdling her back towards the peak she’d only just descended.

For a moment she thought maybe she couldn’t take it. And then she was there, flinging through space and over the edge once more, her vision going black and the world falling away around her. She struggled to maintain consciousness, finding the anchor she needed in the desperate bay of his voice.

“Christ, Claire!” He thrust into her again and again and once more, and then was still, shuddering above her.

He collapsed on top of her, his lips to her ear. On the edge of oblivion, she heard him whisper raggedly in her ear.

“I need ye.”


	12. Hold On

December 22, 1953 (just after midnight)

“What did you say?” Claire panted, where she lay on her back in bed next to Jamie.

“I just said,” he heaved, with a breathless laugh, “that I thought my heart was going to burst.”

“Hmm…” She hummed, pleased at her effect on him, as she rolled to her side so that she could press a quick kiss to the center of his chest, before propping herself up on her elbow to peer down at him.

She ran a lazy finger up the carved length of his naked torso, looking up at him again when she felt him tense beneath her touch.

“What is it?” She whispered, playfully at first, though the flirty smile on her face quickly fell away when she saw the panicked—almost horrified—look on his face.

“Please.” She begged after a few seconds of silence, running her hand up his chest and neck to cup his chin, “Please don’t say that you regret it.”

“Regret it?” He balked, incredulous, blinking as though coming back to his senses.

She nodded shyly, teeth in her bottom lip as her eyes searched his. He detached her hand from his chin and brought it to his mouth, pressing a long, warm kiss to her palm.

“Sassenach.” He said softly. “I’ve never been so happy in my life. Truly.”

“Charmer.” She quipped, swatting at his chest, though she couldn’t hide the relieved grin from her face.

He captured the offending hand, threading his fingers through hers. “Ye find yerself charmed then?”

He rolled on top of her then, pressing kisses to her neck, cheeks, and collarbone.

“Stop trying to change the subject,” she breathily demanded, determined not to let him distract her. “I can tell that something’s bothering you.”

A deep sigh as he rolled back off of her and onto his side, propping himself up on his elbow.

“It’s just… well… we didna take any precautions, Sassenach.”

“Precautions?” She repeated back to him, not comprehending.

“Not to say I dinna want bairns!” He amended hastily. “Once yer free of Randall- once we’re together properly, I’d love a whole house full of weans.”

He smiled down at her with a tenderness that broke her heart, running a finger lightly down her throat.

“But—well, now….” He went on, eyes following his finger as it made a trail across her chest and stomach. “I canna think it would do well for us to complicate this situation any further.”

In an instant, his words took on meaning that she had not been able to see through the haze of bliss—the implication of his sentiments recalling her to the truth that she had kept from him. Somehow, she had let her need for him—her all-consuming need for him—make her blind to all that she could not give him.

She blinked, rapidly, the whiplash of the moment—shattering joy, to confusion, to soul-rending despair—making the room spin around her in a flash of shadow and color.

“Oh, right.” She sat up, gathering the sheet around her defensively. She pinched the bridge of her nose delicately as she tried to figure out where to begin. “That… um… that won’t be a concern.”

“What do ye mean?”

Bile rose up in her throat, seemingly in perfect time with the wave of melancholy rushing over her and engulfing the bubble of euphoric madness they’d created for themselves. She brought her knees up to her chest, nervously clasped her hands around her shins, and rested her cheek so that it faced away from him.

“There’s something wrong with me…” She began, her voice small and thick with emotion. “I… I’m not sure what… But I can’t… Well I can’t... “

She took a deep shuddering breath when she felt Jamie’s hands on her, unwrapping her, tearing down her walls, lifting her into his lap as though he would shackle himself to this burden on her soul and carry it for her.

“Ssh, mo chridhe.” He crooned, arms enveloping her, pressing her tight against him. “It’s alright.”

“No.” She insisted softly, pulling back and shaking her head. “Here I am, asking you to-to- wait years-promising you a life when I can’t even…” She firmly pressed her hand against her mouth as she began to tremble in earnest.

“Oh Claire, don’t you see?” He took her chin gently between thumb and forefinger, drawing her face up until her eyes met his. “I am so hopelessly uninterested in any kind o’ life that doesna include ye.”

Taking both hands, he ran his fingers up into the mass of her curls, nails scraping along her scalp. “I only want you.” 

She let him hold her, soothing her as her tears followed, hot and salty on his bare shoulder.

“Can I ask ye something?”

She nodded against him, burrowing herself closer, eyes squeezed shut. 

“Did ye want them?” He asked in a soft voice. “Bairns, I mean.”

Her breath suddenly caught, harsh and loud on a sob she didn’t see coming. “I did.”

She hiccupped against his shoulder as he pressed a kiss to her temple. “It’s alright, ye ken?”

She pulled back, looking up at him. “What is?”

“That ye still weep for it.” He said, voice low and husky. “Ye are so very strong Sassenach.” His arms suddenly clamped around her like a vice. “Let the grief take ye for a bit, Claire. I’ve got ye.”

It was as though his words unlocked a hidden well from deep within her and she all but dissolved into him. She wept with a force that alarmed her, shoulders quaking again and again as she let herself be torn open, completely, as she never had before, knowing that she was safe.

All the while, Jamie’s arms were locked tight around her, his lips pressed softly to her ear as he whispered words that seeped through her skin and into the very core of her being. Words that healed the broken and jagged pieces that she’d thought beyond repair. Some time later, she pulled back and looked up into his face, running her fingers lightly along the lines of him- lines that shaped the shadows of her dreams.

“Mo nighean donn…” He murmured reverently against her fingertips as she lightly pressed them against his lips.

“And what does that one mean?” She asked in a small, shaky voice.

“My brown haired lass.” He smiled, taking a fistful with a playful little tug.

“Is there a way to say my name in Gaelic?” She asked, suddenly curious.

“Mm. Sorcha.” He grumbled, teeth nipping gently at the tender flesh of her neck.

“Mmphm.” She grunted, fingers twirling idly in the hair at his nape. “Has a certain ring to it, no?”

“Aye. Tho’ I must say—I’m partial to Sassenach myself.”

“Hmm.” She smiled against his mouth before kissing him softly, lazily. “Tell me more.” 

“Luaidh mo chèile.” He whispered before he could stop himself, voice thick with emotion.

“Loy mo heeluh?” She repeated back in her best imitation, words trailing off on a squeal as he flipped her over onto her back. “What does that mean?”

She pressed her hands to his bare chest as he loomed over her, eyes dark and raging with a naked lust that had her back arching involuntarily off the bed. Without answering her question, he dipped his head until his mouth met the flesh of her collar bone, letting his lips tattoo unspoken promises of devotion and love, the lip of his tongue drawing a tantalizing trail that left goosebumps in its wake.

“Jamie…” She whispered, arching, aching, as his descent continued beyond her navel, curving to draw a maddening bridge of smacking kisses from one hip bone to the other.

Incoherent as she was with the wanting, she only dimly registered the grip of his hands on her knees as he spread her legs wide before him. It wasn’t until she felt the scrape of his stubble at the top of her inner thigh that she sat up sharply, leaning back on her palms pressed flat against the mattress, blinking down at him, chest heaving.

“What… what are you doing?” She panted.

“Hush.” He said in a quiet tone that brooked no argument.

She watched him, gazes locked, as he inched closer and closer to the most vulnerable part of her. She wanted to push him off, to snap her legs closed. She’d known women could serve men in a similar fashion, she’d done it for Frank the handful of times he’d requested it. It never occurred to her that the act could be reciprocated.

Her mind was a jumble of disjointed thoughts as she trembled beneath his hands, which had found their way to her hips. He peered up the length of her body, eyes hungry and fierce, but softening when he saw the uncertainty in hers.

“Dinna fash, Sassenach. I’ve got ye.” He ran a pair of calloused hands up her sides, before descending back to the swell of her hips. “And I willna let ye go.” 

 

Before she could protest, before she could so much as form another coherent thought, she found herself collapsing back onto the bed, swept up in a wave of euphoric madness. 

Sometime later, he pulled out of her as she lay limp and gasping beneath him. He moved to lay fully on top of her, head pressed to her chest, listening intently until her breathing slowed.

“Luaidh mo chèile.” He eventually rasped against her ear, thinking her long asleep. “Love of my life.”

*****

They spent the next weeks at the Ridge, enveloped in an all-consuming bliss, the likes of which neither of them had ever known. They walked in the snow, sipped wine by the fire, and told stories as they lay side by side in the dark. Every night, they went to bed together, though Jamie would always make a show of going into his room first before immediately bursting through the adjoining door.

It was there in that sacred darkness that Claire found herself stripped of every means of defense. She laid herself completely bare to him, trusting her body and soul to his keeping without second thought. Jamie took all of her, deconstructed her, rendered her utterly defenseless. His hands and mouth working her into a near-constant pulsing frenzy until she cried out, heedless, begging and gasping, surrendering completely, until at the last, they met together in an explosion of need and yearning. It was then—at the very last—that he paid his penance, a fair exchange of his soul for hers.

All too soon, the pull of reality and responsibility came rushing back. Claire was due back in Washington in early January, where she would be trapped in the endless cycle of obligations for a soul-crushing five weeks—her longest stint back in the White House since Cuba.

*****

They left the Ridge on a rainy January morning, hearts full and strong, the bond between them seeming unbreakable. At first, being in Washington was no different than life on the Ridge. They were together at all times throughout the day and had plenty of opportunities to steal a laugh or a flirty glance.

However, it wasn’t long before the weight of secrecy and deception fell upon them like a dark cloud. For Jamie, it took the form of the intimate moments they’d once shared, now taken and invaded by strangers. The dinners they’d once shared, laughing over glasses of whisky, fingers caressing lips as they fed each other bits of food, had now morphed into a very specific form of torture. One where he was doomed to stand apart from her, separate, against the wall behind her, while she and Orion entertained an endless parade of meaningless guests in the formal dining room.

For Claire, it took the form of missed kisses and touching. How often she had to stop herself from reaching out to tuck back one of his ruddy locks, to straighten his tie, or to simply rest upon his shoulder. Physical intimacy with Jamie had become second nature, the need to reach out and touch him as constant upon her as the need to breathe.

As the weeks drug on, they both felt the strain upon them, heavier and heavier with each passing minute. And yet, every night they found salvation in the quiet of Claire’s bedroom. Thanks to John Grey—who’d agreed to take over Claire’s night watch—Jamie could simply slip in behind her when she retired, without fear of being caught.

It was in these precious quiet hours together that they found each other again. Claire shedding the suffocating shell of her facade, giving herself over to Jamie—begging him to claim her and make her whole once more. Night after night they met, almost strangers, battered by the battle of daylight, coming together in a tentative joining that turned fierce and desperate with reminder of touch.

It was heaven and hell, this endless cycle of finding one another, only to be torn apart with the rising of the sun.

February 2nd, 1953

One more week, he told himself. One more week and then they could go home. Home— something the Ridge had become to him without him realizing it. He tried not to think of how this was just the beginning. He tried not to think of the years stretched out before him— daunting and endless—years that they would both spend trapped in this prison of wanting and deprivation, with only the briefest of occasional mountain respites to sustain them. It would get easier, he told himself. It had to.

That night, the President was hosting a formal dinner for the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom. Claire had been giddy with excitement for weeks at the prospect of meeting Mr. Churchill, and he had to admit to more than a little eagerness on his own part to catch a glimpse up close of the man who saved Europe.

At first, the evening was perfectly pleasant. Jamie had to hide a beaming smile, listening with pride as Claire charmed the Prime Minister with her extensive grasp of history and politics and enamoured him with the recounting of her experiences in France. And, of course, he took more than a little pleasure at how clearly it bothered Frank.

And then it happened. It was only supposed to be a quick picture at the end of the night. The President and First Lady posed together in the center of the ballroom—a memento of sorts, to commemorate the occasion. It wasn’t until the last flash of bulb that Frank grabbed her. Jamie almost missed it—he wished fervently that he had. It only lasted a second. An instant in time where Frank’s hand slipped down Claire’s red silk clad hips, down to the curve of her arse, taking a quick and possessive handful, before releasing her again.

For a moment, Jamie thought he might lose it. He almost did. He didn’t even realize he was moving until he found himself standing just behind Claire, as Frank continued to shake hands. God knows what he would have done, had it not been for Claire’s quick thinking. She turned to him, smiling warmly.

“Mr. Fraser, there you are!” Her calm, clear voice rang out, a tonic on the rage. “I’m quite tired, I think I’d like to retire.”

At this Frank, turned sharply on his heels. “Darling, you can’t leave yet. We’ve still got-”

“Give everyone my best won’t you?” She called back to him as she walked away, Jamie trudging behind her with lead feet.

They didn’t speak the entire way up to her bedroom. Once locked safely inside, he leaned back against the closed door, arms folded across his chest as he stared at his shoes. Claire sat at her dressing table, eyes watching him in the mirror as she took off her jewelry and makeup.

Finally, when she could take it no longer, she broke the silence.

“I didn’t invite that kind of... “ She began, gesturing vaguely as she searched for words, “... attention from him.”

“I know.” He whispered, not looking at her.

“Do you?” She demanded, spinning around in her chair.

“I do.”

She heaved a heavy sigh before rising, taking tentative steps as she crossed the room, moving to stand just an arm’s length in front of him. “Then why won’t you look at me?”

He could hear the fear in her voice. A silent pleading that tugged at his heart. But still, he could not look up. Not yet.

“I just… “ He began, shrugging helplessly.

“What?” She begged, taking another cautious step towards him.

The nearness of her was like a wrench in his guts, prying him open. His fingers dug into his own flesh as he resisted the urge to reach out and take her into his arms.

“I hate it sometimes, Claire.” He finally admitted in a small voice, laced with equal parts rage and shame. “I really do.”

“What and you think I don’t?” She shot back, making him look up, the sharp irritation in her voice catching him off guard. “You think I wouldn’t give anything to be able to run out the doors of this godforsaken place and never look back?” 

“No, I don’t think that.” He bit back, suddenly just as mad as she was. “And I never said I did.”

“Well then why are you acting like this?” She demanded, angry tears pooling in the whiskey depths of her eyes.

“Why am I acting like this?” He repeated, incredulous. “I had to sit there and watch as that filthy lecher put his hands on ye, and I couldna do a thing about it!”

“You don’t think I’m angry?” She fumed. “You think I enjoyed having my arse groped in front of eighty bloody congressmen, not to mention Winston Churchill for Christ’s sake?”

He looked at her then—really looked at her. He saw it all—the anger, the humiliation. He felt his shoulders droop as the tension spilled out of him. Just as he opened his mouth to apologize, her face crumpled in such a sudden onslaught of hysterical sobs that, for a second, all he could do was stare at her, frozen to the spot.

Once sense came back to him, he went to her at once, gathering her up in his arms.

“A nighean please dinna weep.” He whispered frantically into her ear. “I didna mean to upset ye so. Will ye forgive me?”

“No, no it’s not you.” She said through sobs, face pressed into his chest. “I’ve just been… so emotional lately. I don’t know why.”

She pulled back a few minutes later, looking up at him with swollen eyes. “I’m sorry.” She mumbled. “I don’t know why I’m so… so….” a deep, shuddering breath, “I think I just miss you.”

“Ssh, mo chridhe.” He murmured as his lips pressed to her forehead. “Ye never have to miss me. I’m right here.”

Her arms snaked up to wrap around his neck as she pressed herself close against him, as though she could melt into him.

“Take me to bed, Jamie.”

*****

February 3rd, 1953

The next morning, Jamie felt considerably lighter as he bounded back up the stairs towards Claire’s room, having snuck down to his quarters in the basement just before dawn for a change of clothes. He had just reached the last landing before her floor, when he heard the telltale crackling in his ear piece.

“Fraser, find someone to cover your post,” said the voice. “Orion wants to meet with you in his office. Alone.”

A heartbeat. Two.

“He says it’s important.”


	13. Transfer

February 1953

He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t speak. He marched blindly through the halls of the White House, looking for a door, desperate for air. His hands pulled at the knot of his neck tie, seeking relief from the vice at his throat.

How could he have been so stupid? So fucking careless? He barely registered the form of John Grey coming towards him through the haze of red and only dimly noticed the checking of shoulders as he shoved rudely passed him, bound for the door at the end of the hall. He felt as though he were adrift in the sea, desperately racing towards the water’s surface.

He opened the large french doors out into the light of the Washington morning, gulping down air and finding only minimal relief. He felt the churning in his guts and fought a silent battle not to empty them there on the south portioco. Leaning, hand reaching blindly, he found purchase on one of the great stone columns. He brought his forehead to rest against his forearm, struggling to regain anything resembling composure.

He became vaguely aware of cautious steps coming towards him and thought that he could hear the sound of John Grey’s voice, low and concerned, but he couldn’t seem to make himself look up. He was dragged, yet again, back into that office with that man. That such a feckless coward should have so many good men dedicated to the protection of his life was beyond comprehension.

Jamie could still still hear it, his arrogant and crooning voice in that ridiculous Boston accent, deconstructing bit by bit the one piece of happiness Jamie and Claire had managed to build for themselves.

*****

“Pictures don’t lie, Mr. Fraser.” He smirked, sliding a stack of black and white stills across his desk.

Jamie following Claire into her bedroom. Undressing her. Kissing her. Loving her. A thousand intimate moments they’d shared together since coming back to Washington, now defiled by his prying eyes.

“What exactly do you imagine you can accomplish with these?” Jamie asked in a slow, clear voice.

“Oh you’d be surprised.” Frank sneered, leaning back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head. “I have a fantastic imagination.”

Jamie’s jaw clenched. “I’ll deny it.”

“That’s your prerogative,” Frank shrugged. “Not to worry. If you won’t kiss and tell, I’ve found plenty of other men that will.”

“There are no other men!” Jamie snarled, standing up with such force that his chair fell over backwards behind him. “There never have been, and ye know it!”

Frank scratched the side of his jaw in mock consideration. “That may be so. However…”

He stood, leaning forward on his desk, weight on his palms. “Let me put it this way. Pictures may not lie- but men do. For the right price, that is.”

*****

Jamie was still seeing red some time later as he recounted the spectacle to a horrified John Grey.

“So, what—he’s blackmailing you?” Grey sputtered. “He’ll have his own wife slandered as a whore, unless you—what—quit?”

“Nah. I canna quit. And he canna fire me. Not without an investigation.” Jamie explained. “Secret Service contracts are tricky like that.”

“So what does he want from you then?”

“He’s put in for my transfer.” Jamie spat, misery sinking into the marrow of his bones. “He wants me to tell Claire I asked for it myself. And then to go, w’out making a fuss.”

“Transfer?” Grey asked with drawn brows. “Transfer to where?”

“His mother—Nora Randall—she has a one agent detail. Her man’s retiring, and I’m to take over his post starting next week.”

“So, it’s exile then?”

“Aye.”

There was a long pause between them as they both considered the true implications of what had just transpired.

“What are you going to do?” John asked quietly.

Jamie let out a huge breath, shrugging his shoulders as he answered. “He didna really give me much of a choice, did he?”

“You could tell Claire?” John offered weakly.

He shook his head. “Nay. I canna do that. She won’t let me go.” He took a deep breath. “I will no’ let her suffer because of me. No’ for a single moment.” 

*****

Jamie would be forever grateful that Randall had at least been unwittingly merciful in granting him a week’s grace before the transfer. This way, he could say goodbye to Claire in the same place where he’d first found her—the real her—at the home they’d made together on the Ridge.

Those last few days were simultaneously the most precious and terrible of his life. Not even when he sat chained to a wall in that camp in Germany had he felt so goddamned helpless. A thousand times, he resolved to tell her. To reveal Randall’s heinous plot. To fall to his knees and beg her to come away with him. And a thousand and one times, he resolved that he could not do such a thing. To expose her to such a national scandal, to flay her open so publicly would be the most heinous betrayal—a betrayal that Frank could commit because he had never held her soul whole in his hands. Jamie had, and he would see it safe, no matter what it cost his own.

He was reminded of those days before the war—his last at home. He spent every night watching the sunset across the highlands, taking deep and heavy gulps of air. Spent the days with his sister and with Ian, memorizing the sound of their laughter. Walked the halls of his father’s house with heavy, somber steps, each creak of the floorboards like an imprint on his heart. Now, on the Ridge, watching Claire as she worked in her garden, or read by the fire, he felt very much like a young soldier bound for war. Doing everything he could to soak up the beauty of his dreams to sustain him in the nightmare that lie ahead. 

He couldn’t stop touching her. Couldn’t get close enough. Found himself tracing the lines of her palms when they held hands, pressing up close against her back when she stood at the kitchen counter, desperate to memorize every single shape of her. If she sensed the despair in his desperation, she didn’t show it. On the contrary, she seemed to delight in his voracious appetite for her, stoking it often with quick touches and stolen glances.

One afternoon, when they were up on the high ridge looking for wild herbs, Claire’s eyes caught in the light of the setting sun, the glimmering whiskey of her eyes piercing his soul like a knife in his gut. He couldn’t stop looking at her, as she bent down with her wee knife, curls tumbling about her face. She rose back up, a triumphant smile on her face, until she caught his eyes on her. And then the smile was gone—replaced by something different.

She quirked her head towards the heavily wooded area just behind him and sauntered off without another word. His feet moved to follow her before his mind had a chance to catch up. He’d lost count of how many times he had her in the last few days. He could not stop. He could not get enough. He swallowed every sigh, every breathy whisper of praise. He memorized the way her body arched into his, the way her nails carved a pattern of ecstatic wanting in the curves of his shoulders.

He followed her into the trees- to the spot where she sank down in a soft patch of grass, pulling him down on top of her. His fingers flew down the buttons of her blouse, his mouth attaching automatically to the silky peaks and valleys of skin.

“Does it ever stop?” She gasped, laughing and breathless with her hands at the buttons of his shirt. “The wanting you?”

All the air left his lungs, and he had to bury his face in the curve of her neck so she wouldn’t see the tears that pricked at the corners of his eyes.

He knew then that it never would.

*****

The last night before his transfer, Jamie resolved that he must at least say goodbye. To leave without a word would not give her closure. She would always be waiting, always be searching for him. He felt bile rising up in his throat as he stood leaning against the door frame in her bedroom, watching as she sat at her dressing table and brushed her hair—a view he had treasured so many time before.

A deep breath. And then another. He squared his shoulders and steeled himself to break her heart.

“Claire.” He said in a voice that didn’t sound like his. Flat. Cold.

She tensed almost instantly, brush in hand, frozen in mid-air. She met his gaze in the mirror; his eyes a tremulous wall of blue, hers a tepid pool of amber. Vulnerable. Trusting.

“Is something wrong?” She asked, standing from the table, wrapping her arms tightly around herself.

“I have to go.” He blurted in a harsh voice, rough as gravel.

Her face screwed up in utter incomprehension. “What do you mean?”

He swallowed the horrible lump in his throat. “I can’t do this anymore Claire.”

The color instantly drained from her face, her arms falling to her side in shock. “What?”

“I’m sorry.” He continued, hoping she didn’t hear the tremor in his voice. “I thought I was up for it. But I’m not.”

“Up for it?’ She croaked, her already-watering eyes snapping back to his, fierce and angry. “Up for me, you mean?”

For us.

“It’s just all too complicated. And I’m sorry, but…” He said a silent prayer for forgiveness—to God, or to her, he wasn’t sure—before striking the final blow. “It’s not worth it.” He spat out through gritted teeth, the vile lie tasting like ash in his mouth.

A small breathless sound that cleaved his heart in two escaped her as she stepped back, reeling as though struck.

She clapped a hand to her mouth, staring past him for a moment, until she focused back on him with an unnerving sureness.

“No.” She stated with absolute certainty. “You didn’t mean that.”

His jaw dropped and then clamped shut again. “Claire..”

“No.” She roared again. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because.” He roared back, desperate, knowing he couldn’t take much more. “I don’t feel like waiting around until you’re ready to start a life with me.”

His words struck a chord, making her flinch, and he had to force himself to go on.

“I want a life now. With someone else.” His voice broke on the last word, and she heard it. He cursed himself as he saw a new flame of hope ignite in her eyes.

A long silence passed between them. He begged his feet to move, to walk away from her while he still could. But he couldn’t seem to tear himself away. And then, when she spoke again, he was powerless.

“Whether you want me or not, I am yours Jamie Fraser.” She declared, in a low and deliberate voice, tears falling in slow columns down her cheeks. “And you’re mine—” her lips snarling with a possessiveness that struck him in the center of his wame, “—whether you want to be or not. Nothing will ever change that.”

She came to him then, head tucking naturally under his chin, arms snaking around his waist. It was a physical pain, keeping his own arms at his sides, fists clenched, nails digging into his palms. The longer she held him, the more his resolve faded away. He had to do something. Had to move, had to—

“Please don’t leave me.” She uttered in a quiet, shaky voice, tears wet and hot on the fabric of his shirt. “You’re all I have.”

Jamie’s knees turned to water and he very nearly collapsed. His forehead came down of its own volition, landing with a light thump on her crown as his arms came around her like a vice. He breathed deeply, inhaling her scent like oxygen.

“Oh, Christ, Claire…” He groaned, his voice hoarse.

He knew what it cost her to make such an admission. She was cutting herself open for him, making herself vulnerable in a way that went beyond admissions of love whispered in the dark.

“Please.” Her voice betraying the most beautiful vulnerability that lay within her. The endless bounty of her that was his and his alone to plunder.

His body moved then of its own volition, his mouth finding hers in a fury of wanting that scared him as much as it roused him. From that point forward, the conscious part of him served as nothing more than a casual observer, no longer in control of action. She commanded him, wholly and completely, and he could do nothing but watch as his soul responded to the call of hers.

“I need you.” She whispered desperately against his lips, hands busy at his belt. “Now.”

He felt himself nod as he swept her up in his arms. One last time, he told himself. This one last time—and he would not be gentle. It would be frantic, violent, and powerful. He would leave marks that would stay for a time, even after he had gone.

She stared down at him, eyes wide and ethereal, as he carried her across the room until they reached the bed. He lowered her slowly, so slowly, holding her gaze until she met the gentle embrace of the duvet, hair fanning out around her in a dark pool of curls that he wished he could hide himself in forever.

He tumbled down on top of her, clumsy and desperate, trembling hands grabbing at the silk of her night gown without finding purchase. Her hands, by contrast, were sure and steady between them, busy at his zipper. Hitching her legs high up around his waist, she nudged his pants down with her heels. She hiked her nightgown up to bunch at her hips, as he gasped helplessly into the curve of her neck. 

The sound of her whimpering beneath him brought him back to his senses and he snapped up quickly, ripping off his shirt, before coming back down on his forearms. 

He always went a little mad when he first pushed inside her, but tonight it was as though the need of her possessed his soul. Snaking his arms under her, at the small of her back and nape of her neck, he held her up, tight against him, desperate to get closer. Despite the urgency in him, he could not bear to let this end a second sooner than it had to. He moved in slow, rolling, torturous thrusts, relishing in the fierce, hot press of his hips against her thighs. 

“Mo chridhe…” He rasped, barely able to see her through the haze of hot tears. 

Claire, by contrast, was wild and frenzied. She was everywhere, arching into him, teeth at his neck, nails in his back, breathy threats and pleas rasping in his ears. 

“Don’t stop…” She demanded in a low, throaty whine that made his eyes roll back in his head. 

He swallowed hard, pressing his lips to her ear. 

“Never.”

*****

He came awake slowly, deep in the night, to the feeling of Claire taking him in her hand, stroking- making him ready for her. He groaned and looked up through half-open eyes, just in time to see her rising over him.

“Claire…” He hissed, back arching, as she sank down on him.

Her eyes were flashing, fierce with want and rage. His hands came up to rest on her hips as she ran her nails down his chest, leaving angry red lines in their wake. She rode him at a hard, punishing pace. She was holding nothing back, clawing him, biting him. Daring him to go, begging him to stay.

“Never.” She snarled. “Never another but me.”

He made a sound- a visceral growl, wretched and rough in his throat as she moved on him, unable to tear his eyes away as she leaned back, bracing herself with a hand on his thigh. 

“Do you hear me you bloody man? You are mine.”

“Aye.” He groaned. “I hear ye.”

He rose up to meet her and crushed her to him, forehead to forehead, twining his fingers hard in her hair- 

“And yer mine, Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp.” He breathed into her mouth, the need on him as urgent as it was on her. “I dinna care that ye have his name, or that the world thinks yer his. I dinna care if ye let him come to yer bed after I’m gone. You are mine. Mine.”

“You. Are. Not. Leaving.” She wailed through gritted teeth, each word punctuated by the roll of her hips.

She slowed her movements and then stilled entirely, the hitch in her breath so laced with heartbreak as to undo him at the seams. 

“I won’t survive.” She whispered into his mouth.

He could not stop the anguished sound that rose from his lips as he gripped the hair at her nape so tightly, he thought she might cry out.

“Ye will, my Sassenach. Ye are so strong. So brave. I am in awe of ye always.”

He brought his hands to her hips and began to move her slowly, grinding her against him at an agonizing pace.

“Pay attention, mo nighean donn. I want ye to always remember how it feels to have me inside ye.”

She groaned and surrendered completely to the manipulation of his hands.

*****

He watched her sleep for a long time, until the first curling fingers of dawn crept through the shadows, casting them away and bathing Claire in pink, orange, and gold. He knew he should go. He was living on borrowed time. She would rise soon, and he would be powerless again. 

He folded up the letter he’d written her, sliding it gently in the envelope with a care that bordered on reverence. It occurred to him, as his messy scrawl drew across the off-white face of the envelope, that he’d never written her name down before, never seen it in his own hand.

He wanted desperately to leave it for her now. Wanted her to read it the moment she woke, to come after him, to drag him back, and never let him go again. And yet, weak as he was, the love of her fortified him with seemingly boundless strength.

On shaky legs, he rose, unable to stop himself from ghosting his lips across her forehead.

“Cuiribh mathanas dhomh, mo ghràidh.” He whispered, voice cracking. (Forgive me, my love.) 

Walking as though he were chained to canon balls, he left her room, closing the door gently behind him. John Grey, Claire’s new shadow, stood post outside. Jamie took solace in that. That she would be in the care of a friend.

He shook his hand before handing him the letter. “After the next election.” He said, voice gruff and low. “Will ye give this to her? Not a day sooner.”

The envelope was accepted with a reluctant nod and a grim compression of thin lips. 

Grey had been his unwilling co-conspirator in a way. Him and Mary Hawkins. Despite their objections, he gave them strict instructions to be there for Claire, give her whatever she needed. Protect her in the ways that he couldn’t any longer. But to never, under any circumstances, tell her the real reason he was leaving. Unable to bear the thought of her living forever with the false knowledge that he had left her of his own free will, he had conceded that they could reveal all to her after the next election. He had no false hope that she would come to him then- only for her to know once and for all that she held his heart, whole and pulsing, forever in her hands.

****

The tears didn’t come until the cab pulled onto the main road. They were silent and warm on his cheeks. The driver didn’t notice. Or had the good sense not to say anything if he did.

Jamie stared out the window, trying to suppress the panic he felt at the thought of never seeing her again. He could do this. For her, he could do anything.

He watched the road pass by as they drove, barely noticing as the colors drained away and the world became gray around him.


	14. The Other Mrs. Randall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Side note: I’ll be posting Chapters 15 and 16 on the same day so it will take me a little longer than usual to get the next update ready but dinna fash!! I’ll do my best to make it worth the wait.

March 1954   
Washington, D.C.

John Grey closed the door to the First Lady’s quarters and turned to be greeted by the agent who’d been assigned the night’s watch. Once relieved of duty, he immediately ripped the piece from his ear, stuffing it in his pocket as he loosened his neck tie. He’d been a shadow for three weeks now and he wasn’t any more pleased with the new arrangement than she was. He had an abundance of affection for the First Lady and to be so close to her when she was in such a state of constant melancholy, knowing he could do nothing to assuage it, made him feel maddeningly helpless.

He descended the stairs two at a time until he reached the White House basement. Now that he was a shadow, he was allotted a room—the same room Fraser had once occupied. While he would admit that being right across from Hector had a fair number of advantages, he missed his friend. When he wasn’t absolutely furious with him, that is. As much respect as John had for Fraser, what he wanted more than anything was to give his friend a well-deserved punch in the jaw.

John stripped down to his boxers and slipped into bed, still fuming. The man’s heart had been in the right place, of course, but he was still being damnably daft. There were some days that John wanted very much to break down and tell Claire the truth. That the man she loved more than life had not left her of his own free will, but rather out of a need to protect her. He wondered if Fraser knew—truly knew—the state that he had left the woman in. There were days that it was all Mary Hawkins could do to get Claire out of bed. And other than her visits to area hospitals, she didn’t really seem interested in much of anything. The poor woman was barely alive.

His thoughts then wandered to the conversation he’d had with Mary that morning. Though they’d both been expecting Claire to have a hard time with Fraser’s transfer, things were starting to get progressively worse. She grew thinner by the day, likely having something to do with the frequent bouts of nausea and vomiting she’d apparently been experiencing.

He must have drifted off, for the next thing he knew, he was coming slowly awake to the feeling of Hector wiggling into bed beside him. Though his eyes remained closed, he smiled blissfully, bringing a hand up to cup his cheek.

“I’d say I’m sorry to have woken you…” Hector sighed, pressing kisses to his neck, “But I’m not.”

John hummed his approval as Hector began a tantalizing trail down his neck and chest.

“What kept you so long anyway?” John asked, fingers toying lazily with the hair at Hector’s crown.

“Orion.” Hector laughed bitterly against his navel. “He’s had women in and out all night long… just now retired for the night.”

John tensed instantly and Hector, sensing the change, sat up, peering at him through concerned eyes.

“What is it?” He asked, running a comforting hand up John’s thigh.

“It’s nothing.” John snapped, a little too bitterly.

“Hey.” Hector cooed, coming up to sit beside John and putting a comforting arm around him. “I told you...this business with Outlander and Fraser isn’t your problem to fix.”

John felt a tiny pang of guilt, as he always did when he was reminded that he’d breached Fraser’s confidence—and Claire’s—by sharing the nature of their relationship, as well as the consequences of the recent fall out, with Hector. But Hector was his confidant in all things, and he trusted him completely.

“If it were me…” John asked, picking at his fingernails. “If it were me in Claire’s position, and you in Fraser’s, what would you have done?”

Hector’s mouth slightly compressed in what John recognized to be an instinctual urge to reprimand John’s disregard for codenames. Thankfully, he repressed it.

“Had it been the exact same situation?” Hector mused, considering thoughtfully, before nodding. “I would have done the same thing.”

John huffed his frustration, leaning away from him. “And that doesn’t seem remarkably selfish to you?”

“Selfish?” Hector asked, taken aback. “You think what Fraser did was selfish?”

“Don’t you?”

“I certainly don’t think it’s that simple.” Hector muttered, running a hand through his hair. “You have to try and see things from his perspective. In his mind, it’s his fault. All of it. He was the one that stole a married woman away—”

“But he didn’t—”

“That doesn’t matter.” Hector began harshly before taking a deep calming breath. “Sometimes I forget how young you are.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” John demanded, crossing his arms defensively.

“You weren’t in the war, John.”

Whatever he’d been expecting Hector to say… it certainly wasn’t that. Hector did not like to talk about the war. He watched in silence as Hector rose from the bed and began pacing around the tiny room.

“Fraser and I… we saw good men die by the thousands. And yet, here we still are.” He shrugged helplessly. “You feel guilty for breathing. You convince yourself you’re not worthy of happiness.”

He came back over to the bed and sat on the edge, facing John as he took his hand.

“And then when happiness finds you anyway…” He continued quietly, bringing the hand to his lips. “It’s a hell of a thing to reckon with.”

John swallowed the lump that formed in his throat. “Hector, I—”

“Ssh, I know.” He said, climbing back under the blankets. “Let’s just get some sleep.”

Later, as John lay in the dark listening to Hector’s steady breathing, he thought perhaps he understood now, in a way, that singular sort of guilt that comes from having something that others had been so wrongly deprived of.

******

March 1954   
Boston, MA

All things considered, Jamie didn’t hate working for Nora Randall. She was kind and courteous, always made sure that Jamie was taking sufficient amounts of personal time, and, in a strange way, she reminded him of Claire. Though he wasn’t sure if it was his mind playing tricks on him, longing for her as he was. And long for her he did. In near constant agony.

Sometimes, deep in the night, when sleep refused him and the memory of her tormented him, he would beg to forget. He would pray for amnesia. He couldn’t bear it. To remember the smell of her, the warmth of her. The way her pink lips would curl upwards when she smiled at him, or the way she made him feel when she quivered beneath him. He wept with abandon, desperate and pleading, recalling in agony how her satin skin had slipped and rippled under his hands. It all played out so clearly in his head: the high, lyrical sound of her voice when she said something she thought truly clever; the way the afternoon sun would catch in her hair.

He would thrash, writhing and raging in the darkness, begging to forget. And then, he would wake with the rising of the morning sun. When the light touched his face, and awareness reached him, he would grapple, in a panic, searching for the memory of her. He would find himself relieved to the point of sobbing breath to find it not taken from him, clutching the ghost of her close to his soul, refusing to let go.

One night, when the longing for her wrapped around him, constricting and unbearable, he gave up in his pursuit for peace, finding a surprising glimmer of relief in surrender. He rose from his bed and threw on pants and a white cotton t-shirt, needing desperately to get out of the room. The house was quiet, as it usually was. The elder Mr. Randall was almost always away on business, and the elder Mrs. Randall’s schedule was mostly limited to a few meetings and appearances, with the occasional social gathering to attend in the evening.

He wandered through the enormous house—pristine and silent as a museum—eventually wandering into the large family room. He usually avoided this room whenever possible, having noticed on his first day of his new assignment that the room was full of landmines—pictures of Claire littered amongst the other members of the Randall brood. Tonight, though, he perused the shadowy frames on the walls, realizing that he needn’t have worried. The woman in these photos might look like the woman he loved, but it wasn’t her. Not really.

Without conscious thought, his hand went to his pocket, digging for his billfold and flipping it open to reveal his most prized possession.

*****

December 29th, 1953

The Ridge

The morning sun slowly flooded the room with brilliant light, dancing across Claire’s sleeping form as he lay on his side, propped up on one elbow watching her. He wanted to remember everything about this moment. He wanted to remember the way she slept with her hair in a chaotic fan around her, arms flung out in abandon- one hand resting by her cheek, the other high above her head on the pillow.

So absorbed was he in his observation, that he didn’t realize she’d woken until his gaze traveled back to her pace, meeting a pair of whisky eyes, open and narrowed at him in mock annoyance.

“You’re staring.” She said in a low voice, husky from sleep.

“Am I?” He smiled, bringing a hand up to brush curls from her face.

“Mmhmm.” She hummed dreamily.

“I canna help it…” He admitted in a low voice. “I dinna think I’ll ever tire of seeing ye like this.”

“Like what?”

“All warm and wild and soft…” He murmured, ghosting a finger along the curve of her jaw. “The way ye look when I dream of ye.”

She was fully awake now, swallowing hard, her eyes swimming with such unbridled devotion he very nearly lost his breath.

“And since I dinna have a camera…” He continued, clearing his throat. “My memory will just have to do.”

Her eyes popped open with sudden inspiration as she sat up, pausing only briefly to peck him on the lips. “Wait here.”

Bunching the sheet about around her, she rose from the bed, the ivory linen dragging in a train behind her as she made her way to the walk-in closet on the other side of the room. Jamie listened with lazy interest as she rootled about, a series of bumps and clunks as she knocked over god knows what in pursuit of her as yet undisclosed goal. At long last, he heard a triumphant “aha!” before Claire emerged, grinning, with a small leather case in her arms.

“Where’d you get this?” Jamie asked minutes later, sitting up and grinning in awe at the small polaroid camera he now held in his hands.

“Brought it along on our first visit here.” Claire explained, settling herself once again in her languid nest of pillows. “Mary packed it away in the closet, though, and I’d forgotten all about it until just now.”

Suddenly remembering himself exactly what had inspired this particular excavation, he moved down to the end of the bed, camera in hand.

“May I?”

She said nothing, but the wide, breathtaking smile that spread across her face was all the answer he needed.

*****

He held the picture in trembling hands, feeling at once more soothed and tormented than he'd ever had before in his life. She was breathtaking, dark hair curling around her face, cheeks pink and soft. Her eyes on him so clearly, amber depths staring back and brimming with love.

“Mr. Fraser?”

The voice came from just a few feet in front of him, startling him so severely that he dropped the picture, along with his wallet. The wallet’s contents scattered across the dark hardwood floor as he looked up to see a stunned Nora Randall. She wore a modest silk dressing gown, her pale blond hair pulled back in a severe looking bun.

“I beg your pardon, ma’am.” He sputtered eventually, when he finally came to his senses. “I didn’t hear you come down.”

He bent down, quickly retrieving and replacing the contents of his wallet. A few scattered bills, driver’s license, military id card, a picture of Jenny, Ian and their children and—

He looked up just in time to see Nora pluck the picture of Claire from the floor by her feet. Jamie froze as he watched her take in the image of her daughter-in-law, lying prone and dressed only in bedding, trying and failing to think of a way to explain why he had such a thing in his possession.

“Mrs. Randall, I—” He froze again when she looked up, eyes confused, yet cold, as she shifted the angle of the picture, almost defensively away from him. His blood ran cold. What if she mistook the photo as something that Jamie had lecherously absconded from Claire or Frank? What if she didn’t give it back? God, no, he thought in horror, anything but that.

“Please.” He croaked out at last, desperate. “Don’t take it. It’s.. it’s…”

It’s all I have left of her.

He didn’t say the words out loud, but they hung in the air between them just the same.

She blinked at him, almost curiously. Once. Twice. And then her face changed, her dark brown eyes flooding with a clear understanding that startled him. She closed the distance between them, and pressed the picture into Jamie’s outstretched hand. Before he could so much as open his mouth to say thank you, she was walking towards the kitchen.

“Come on Fraser.” She called over her shoulder. “Let’s have a drink.”

At first, they kept the conversation to fairly generic topics. Hometowns, relatives, and the like. It wasn’t until almost an hour had passed and they’d put a good sized dent into a surprisingly decent bottle of brandy that Nora finally got down to business.

“How long did it go on?” She asked bluntly.

Fraser opened his mouth to deny it, closing it promptly when he was once again confronted with that eery and knowing look in her eyes.

“Not long.”

She nodded. “Did she ask you to leave?”

He shook his head silently in answer.

She pressed on. “Did you want to leave?”

“No.” He shot back, a little too loudly.

Nora took a deep sip. “So it was my son then.”

Jamie blinked back at her, having absolutely no idea what to say to that.

“Do you have children, Mr. Fraser?” She asked.

He furrowed his brow, thrown off by her shift in course. “No ma’am.”

“Then you don’t know what it is, then.” She looked away from him, as though ashamed. “To love someone completely and unconditionally, yet absolutely hate the way they can be—the things they’re capable of.”

Again, Jamie could only sit silently, unable to think of anything to say, running his hands nervously up and down his thighs.

“I’m afraid my children don’t have much experience dealing with the consequences of their actions.” She laughed bitterly. “Frank especially.”

The heavy guilt lacing her voice drew him up short. “You shouldn’t blame yourself ma’am.”

“Oh I should.” She smiled sadly. “And I do.” She said with a finality that made it clear that the matter was closed.

They sat in silence, sipping thoughtfully for several moments until she spoke again.

“I shouldn’t have let him pursue her.” Her eyes were unfocused, looking deep into the past. “All those years ago. I knew it was a bad match. But my husband was determined. Claire was perfect for his plan to put a son in the White House. Beautiful, well mannered, poised... and Frank…”, a heavy, defeated sigh, “... well, Frank is his father’s son.”

She looked at Jamie again, straight-on for the first time in several minutes, as though she’d only just now remembered he was there.

“She wrote to me about you, you know.”

He jerked back slightly, stunned. “She what?”

“In her letters.” She smiled fondly. “Very innocent tidbits, you know, nothing too specific. But, well, I can’t explain it, she was just…”, she trailed off, looking for the right words, “Happier. Happier than she’s been in a long time.”

Jamie cleared his throat, feeling a tightness in his chest as he stared at the glass between his hands. “She’ll be happy again.”

“No. She won’t.” Nora said sadly. “Frank will suck the life out of her, little by little, until there is nothing left. You know it as well as I.”

The helpless churn in his wame nearly made him double over, sick with the knowledge that she was right.

“I didn’t want to leave her.” He insisted in a small voice, as he considered for the first time in weeks that he might have made the wrong decision.

“But you did.” She bit back with a sudden anger that surprised him. “You made the decision for both of you, and took her choice away.”

“But how could I give her such a choice?” He demanded, defensive in response to her ire. “How could I ask such a thing of her, knowing what would happen to her if she chose me?”

“Men.” She spat bitterly. “You can be so short sighted.”

“Ma’am?” 

“The thing about blackmail, Mr. Fraser,” she paused, taking another long swig, “is that it tricks you into thinking that their are only two options. Giving in, or losing everything.”

He frowned. “Is there another option?”

“Yes.” She said in an exasperated tone, as though it were obvious. “You give Claire her choice back. And you find a way forward together.”

“How? I’m not on White House detail anymore, I can’t get anywhere near her—”

“Unless.” She interjected. “I happen to be near her.”

She rubbed the back of her neck thoughtfully. “I imagine I’ll be able to come up with a good excuse for spending time with my daughter-in-law, easily enough.”

She rose from the table, stretching hugely.

“Get some sleep, Mr. Fraser.” She said, patting him on the shoulder as she passed.

For a moment, all Jamie could do was sit in stunned silence, until something occurred to him.

“Ma’am?” He said, standing from his chair and turning to her. “I never mentioned anything about blackmail… how did you...?”

She paused in the doorway, glancing at him over his shoulder, the profound sadness in her eyes hitting him square in the chest.

“Like I said. Frank is his father’s son.”

*****

“Mrs. Randall?” The voice on the phone said. “Are you still there?”

“Yes.” Claire croaked, clearing her throat.

“Are you alright?”

“I..I... “ She shook her head, trying to organize her thoughts. “I’m just surprised, I suppose. I wasn’t expecting… I think I just need some time to process this.”

“Of course.” The voice said soothingly. “You’ll call my office if you need anything.”

“Yes.” She breathed. “Thank you Dr. Hunter.”

Claire spent the next several minutes, pacing around her sitting room, her mind still reeling. It wasn’t possible… It simply wasn’t possible. And yet…

She marched over to the desk in the corner of the room, her mind suddenly clear for the first time in weeks. After digging around for a piece of paper that did not bear any reference to the White House or the the Office of the First Lady, she sat down and wrote quickly.

J-

I need to speak with you. It is very important.

((She paused, biting her lip before writing the next line, hesitating even though she knew it was the only thing that would ensure he’d listen.))

I need you. Please. Call my office and ask for Mary.

C

Sealing the note quickly in a crisp envelope, she stood and strode over to the door, poking her head out into the hall. Her new shadow, a man she liked quite a lot, even though he wasn’t Jamie, stood in the hall by her door.

“Mr. Grey?” She said quietly. “Could I speak with you a moment?”

Grey looked a little taken aback, but nodded nonetheless. “Of course.”

Once inside with the door shut behind him, she held out the envelope. “I need you to get this message to Jamie.”

Instead of taking the note from her, Grey only stared down at it, biting his lip, anxiety written in every line of his face.

“I don’t think that would be the best idea, ma’am.”

Claire frowned. “Why ever not?”

Had Jamie been so desperate to cut off communication between them that he’d—

Before she could finish the thought, John sighed heavily, with something that seemed an awful lot like resignation. “Because your husband has asked that all written correspondence delivered to the Randall home in Boston be screened if it is addressed to Mr. Fraser.”

Claire’s mouth fell open as she felt heat rising in her cheeks. “Why?”

Grey looked utterly distressed. “Mrs. Randall—”

“Start talking.” She demanded through gritted teeth. “Right now.”

A few minutes later, Claire was pacing again, this time so overcome with rage that she didn’t know what to do.

“That… that… absolute bastard!” She spat, unsure if she was talking about Frank or Jamie. Probably both of them.

It had been a brilliant ploy on Frank’s part. Jamie didn’t have a political mind—not like Frank’s. Wouldn’t see Frank’s bluff for what it was. Or if he had, he’d been unwilling to test it when something as important to him as her dignity was at risk.

But Claire, having been privy to his nastier tricks throughout the years, knew that Frank could no more release those pictures than he could dance naked with Joseph Stalin in the Rose Garden.

Claire was almost shaking in frustration. So intimately aware of Frank’s many shortcomings as she was, she sometimes completely forgot how capable a politician he was. How clearly he could read people. How easily he could fool people. She cursed herself for believing Frank’s ignorance, horror growing as she wondered just how long he’d suspected. He’d obviously been quietly observing Jamie for a time, enough to know how Jamie would react to his empty threat.

And Jamie, the bloody man, had played right into it.

“What are you going to do?” Grey asked, finally breaking the silence.

“Is there any way to send a note to him without Frank knowing?” She shrugged helplessly.

He bit his lip, shaking his head.

“You could call your mother-in-law?” He offered after another extended silence. “Ask for her to pass word along to him?”

Before Claire could respond, the door to her sitting room swung open, revealing Mary Hawkins with a stack of papers.

“Oh, I’m sorry—” She stopped short, seeing her and John and clearly sensing the tension in the room.

“It’s alright Mary.” Claire sighed. “What do you need?”

“The President’s mother just called—”

“Speak of the devil.” Grey muttered.

Mary turned to look at him, frowning. “I’m sorry?”

“Don’t worry about it.” Claire said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Is she on hold for me now?”

“No, she just called to leave a message.” Mary explained, adjusting the stack of papers in her arms. “That she’ll be accompanying you and the President on the trip to Dallas next week.”

\------


	15. Dallas: Part One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is Dallas Part One, Dallas Part Two (Chapter Sixteen) will post soon!
> 
> Also, thank you all so much for leaving such wonderful comments!! I am going to do my best to go back and respond to as many of them as I can once I get the next chapter posted!

March 21st, 1954 

Claire couldn’t seem to sit still. They’d landed in Dallas an hour ago and she’d practically walked a permanent trail in the carpet of her hotel suite from pacing. She was just completing another circuit, wringing her hands, when the door opened.

“Are they here yet?” Claire asked as soon as Mary entered the room, John Grey hot on her heels.

“Just landed, ma’am.” Mary confirmed with a small smile.

“And Jamie—?”

“Mr. Fraser is accompanying the elder Mrs. Randall.”

Claire exhaled deeply, shoulders sagging as she all but collapsed into a nearby armchair. She’d been terrified that Frank would find a way to pull Jamie off of Nora’s detail once he’d learned of his mother’s decision to join them on the trip, but he was apparently too wrapped up in his own business to notice. It had just been announced that Reginald Wakefield, the Vice President, would not be joining Frank on the ticket for the next election due to health concerns. Texas Governor Bill Tryon was number one on Frank’s list for a new running mate and key to his strategy to secure reelection. Therefore, he was in full-scale schmoozing mode and completely unworried about anything else.

“So, first thing’s first,” Claire began, smoothing the fabric of her dark blue dress down across her thighs. “I need to figure out a way to see Jamie.”

John nodded. “Mary, what’s the First Lady’s schedule for the next two days looking like?”

Opening the large black leather portfolio she seemed to always have on her, Mary flipped a few pages back before finding what she was looking for, running a finger along the page as she read.

“Tonight she and the President have dinner with the Tryons and guests, mostly big donors.” She compressed her mouth slightly as she continued. “Tomorrow is pretty busy. Breakfast hosted by the Dallas Junior League, and then a tour of the new pediatric oncology wing at Dallas Mercy.”

Claire and John both opened their mouths, but Mary, knowing what they were going to ask, beat them to the punch.

“According to my briefing book, the President’s mother will be accompanying the First Lady at all events throughout the visit.”

Claire’s heart soared, only to be pinned back firmly to the ground with John’s astute, no matter how unwelcome, observation.

“That may be so, but all of those events are far too public,” he reasoned. “It wouldn’t do for her to pull Fraser aside for a private word with all of those people around.”

“What about tomorrow afternoon?” Claire asked, playing anxiously with the watch on her wrist.

Mary’s finger dragged further down the page. “After lunch with Mrs. Tryon, and a photo op with the outgoing Miss Texas, you have to come straight back here to get ready for the gala.”

“I think that’s your best shot,” John interjected, thumbing his lower lip thoughtfully.

“When? At the gala?” Claire frowned, considering.

“I think so.” He nodded. “It’s a private event and all eyes will be on the President and the Governor.”

The crown jewel of the visit was the black tie fundraising Gala to be held the following evening at the Empire Plaza downtown. She bit her lip, realizing that he was right. It was a matter of intense speculation in the press these days, whether Governor Tryon would accept Frank’s offer to join the ticket, or if he would make good on his reputation as a party rabble-rouser and make a run against Frank in the primary.

“And my mother-in-law will be attending? You’re sure?”

Mary double-checked the paper in front of her before nodding in response. “Yes ma’am. She’ll be there.”

“Right.” Claire sighed, standing up and rubbing her arms, suddenly chilled with anticipation. “It will have to be then.”

Mary made to leave before turning back just before reaching the door. “Oh, before I forget, here’s that list you asked for ma’am.”

“Oh.” Claire blinked, taking the list from her. “Thank you, dear.”

Mary smiled politely before leaving the room. John stayed behind, peering at her curiously.

“What kind of list?” He asked.

Claire’s eyes scanned the list as she did her best to appear casual. “Divorce lawyers.” She answered simply, without looking at him.

John’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline. “Divorce lawyers?”

Claire nodded in confirmation, and for a long moment all he could do was stare at her. His friendship with the First Lady had grown quite a bit in his time as her shadow, but he was sure he was quickly approaching some sort of unspoken boundary of what she was comfortable discussing with him. Still, he had become very protective of her and—knowing the President as he did—he found himself very much concerned about taking this path without careful consideration.

“Are you sure that’s wise ma’am?” He finally spat out nervously

Claire narrowed her eyes at him, setting her jaw. “I don’t know if it’s wise or not, and I don’t care. It’s the only option I’ll consider from this point on.”

She watched him as he continued to eye her with concern. In truth, she wanted to share with John the reason for her sudden haste in ending her marriage —mostly because she was just dying to tell someone—but she couldn’t bring herself to do it yet. Not before telling Jamie.

“Look…” She sighed. “I can’t explain everything yet. But trust me when I say that recent…” she twisted her wedding ring on her finger, already longing for the day when she could take it off for good, “... recent events have made it impossible for me to live with staying in this marriage any longer than necessary.”

“I see….” He said, eyes widening just a little at the conviction in her voice. “Well, then.”

He took a step closer towards her. “I don’t know if it’s any consolation, ma’am.” He took her hand. “But I hope you know that I am behind you, every step of the way.” He raised her hand, bending his head to place a kiss on her knuckles.

Claire’s eyes pricked with tears as she smiled fondly at the young agent. “That means very much to me, Mr. Grey.” She said in a low voice. “More than you know.”

*****

Across town, 17-year-old Allan Christie was also making plans.

All his life, Allan’s entire world had revolved around his older brother Tom. Their parents weren’t around and Tom was the only person who ever looked out for him. They’d been together through everything and stuck by each other through anything. Allan was devoted to his brother. It didn’t matter when people told him that Tom was “dangerous” or “delusional”. It didn’t matter when counselors and social workers tried to have him taken away. Tom had never left Allan, and Allan would never leave Tom.

It had been nearly six months since his older brother had been locked up in that mental hospital. Six months since that whore Claire Randall had seduced him with her wicked ways, only to have him locked up when they were caught by her husband.

Tom had told Allan the whole sordid tale. How he’d caught Mrs. Randall’s eye while working as a waiter at the Inaugural Ball. How she’d been relentless in her pursuit of him. How he’d tried to resist—she was a married woman, after all—but he’d ultimately given in. Allan still saw red when he thought of how that wicked bitch made his brother come to her bed again and again, making him go on that trip with them to Cuba. And then, when they were caught, she accused him of attacking her.

He of course didn’t believe those horrible lies from the police and Secret Service when they’d questioned him. They made a real show of it—telling him some ridiculous story about how Tom had stalked the First Lady, followed her to Cuba, and impersonated a bell boy in order to break into her room. They even showed him those ridiculous letters that were so clearly fake he couldn’t help but laugh.

His brother would not lie to him. He was sure of that, beyond anything else. Tom had done everything for him—raised him, sheltered him, fed him, loved him. And now, it was time for Allan to repay the favor.

He would avenge his brother. He just had to wait for the right moment.

******

Jamie had been on edge for days. After his candid discussion with Nora Randall that night in her kitchen, he hadn’t been sure what to expect. And then, the next day, when she’d informed him oh so cooly that they would be accompanying the President and the First Lady on the upcoming Dallas trip, he’d very nearly fainted.

He’d been prepared to see Claire again someday but not so soon—and certainly not with a new seed of hope planted firmly in his mind. He’d imagined, with shrinking mind, how it would be. Perhaps at a holiday celebration or some other family gathering. Claire laughing and radiant, free of him as she deserved to be.

He knew that the war had messed with his mind, sending him dreams and unwelcomed flashbacks, but it had never really occurred to him how drastically it had changed his view of himself, his life, and what he deserved. Survivor’s guilt—he was pretty sure that’s what they called it. It was a relief, in a way, being able to shake those demons off his back now that he knew what they were.

Though he remained steadfast in his determination to protect Claire against all things, no matter the cost, he now recognized that this particular instinct had not been his sole motivation for acquiescing to Frank’s threats. Before, he’d thought himself a thief, stealing Claire away from her marriage, from her life, knowing that he had virtually nothing to offer her.

He still wouldn’t let her expose herself to Randall’s ire. They’d have to be careful, and it would likely be difficult. But if she still wanted him, they would find a way.

He moved slowly through the hall of the hotel, skin tingling with the very knowledge that Claire now stood within these same walls.

He knocked on the door of Nora Randall’s suite before stepping in.

“You asked to see me ma’am?” He said from the shadows of the entryway.

She was on the phone, sitting at the desk across the room. Putting a hand over the receiver, she glanced back at him over her shoulder.

“Just a minute, Fraser.” She called, before returning her attention to the phone.

Most of the time, it was hard to see any resemblance between Nora and her son. She was a slender woman with fine, aristocratic features and pale blond hair. He’d never noticed before, but now, watching her at the desk as she worked, he could see traits that had clearly been inherited by the President.

She made notes on the pad in front of her on the desk as she spoke. “And you have the pictures in your possession now? The ones from my personal safe?” She paused, listening to the answer. “Yes, I’ll need those, along with copies of the financial records I’ve tabbed—the ones in the green file.”

Something uttered on the other line made her sigh a little in exasperation. “Yes, I’m quite sure. Thank you. And remember, not a word to anyone in the meantime, do you understand?”

Satisfied with whatever answer she was given, she nodded and quickly ended the phone call before turning back to Jamie, who was leaning against the wall, watching her, brows quirked in question.

“Sounds serious.” He mumbled, nodding at the phone.

She waved a hand dismissively. “Just making plans, Fraser. Nothing for you to worry over.”

He frowned at her in suspicion, but decided not to press the matter.

“Speaking of plans.” She stood, clapping her hands together once. “Mary Hawkins came by to see me a few minutes ago.

Jamie’s mouth went dry. “Did she?”

“She did.” Nora stretched a little before going through some of the papers on the desk. “Wanted to confirm that I’d be at the gala tomorrow night. Something I found particularly odd considering my assistant had already confirmed it with her. Twice.”

“I see.” Jamie said quietly, still trying to figure out why she was telling him this.

“So I have to assume that’s when Claire is planning on making her move.”

Jamie’s eyes went out on stalks, his voice reduced to a barely audible squeak. “I beg your—”

“I do wish you’d stop with the whole…” she gesticulated for a moment, looking for words, “... innocent, silent martyr thing you have going on. It really is terribly exhausting.”

By the time she finished shuffling papers around and bothered to look up at him, his face was practically purple, and she made quite a show of rolling her eyes in response.

“She’s going to try and make contact with you at the gala, Fraser.” She explained with little patience. “It’s clearly the best opportunity for privacy.”

He nodded quietly, considering this, thankful as ever for his inscrutable face.

“Which means…” She nodded at him, challenging his response, “... you have just over 24-hours to figure out just what it is you’re going to do.”

She waited for his nod of acknowledgement before moving on.

“Now, I think it’s high time we both start getting changed for dinner.” She announced with another clap of her hands.

Taking his cue, Jamie turned to leave. He hesitated though, and Nora eyed him speculatively.

“Was there something else, Fraser?” She asked.

He bit his lip, before decisively turning back to her. “Can I ask you a question, ma’am?”

“You can ask.” She shrugged.

He took a step forward, cautious.

“Why are ye doing this?” He asked bluntly, knowing that he need not elaborate as to what exactly he was talking about.

She didn’t answer for several moments, looking away from him, eyes unfocused as though she could see into the past.

“Just before Teddy and I were married, I spent a summer in Scotland.” She finally said, rubbing her upper arms as though chilled. “I met a man and I… well, I came to care for him. Very much.” She added, voice breaking just a little.

Jamie cleared his throat. “And this man… I remind ye of him?” He pressed, cautiously. “That’s why yer doing this for me?”

“No.” She answered without hesitation, shaking her head and bringing her gaze to meet his for the first time in several minutes. “I’m doing this for Claire. Because no one ever bothered to do it for me.”

*****

The next 24 hours were a total whirlwind. The first time Claire saw Jamie, falling in step behind her mother-in-law across the room as they arrived at dinner that first night, she was overcome with sensation. Air gushed through her lungs, her heart pounded loudly and vigorously in her chest, pumping blood in her veins in a furious rush that colored her chest, neck, and cheeks. It was the strangest feeling—almost like her body was waking up.

They danced around each other, intensely aware but never meeting, both of them counting the minutes until the gala on the second night. 

March 22nd, 1954 

Claire arrived first, her hair done up in a french twist, wearing a strapless black gown and long white gloves. Her earrings glistened like teardrops next to her cheeks. Jamie arrived soon after, a few steps behind Nora. Since Nora’s security level was significantly lower than the President and First Lady’s, protocol dictated that Jamie could give her a much wider berth, keeping a watchful eye from a shadowy corner by the bar.

It was there that Claire finally approached him, eyeing the glasses of wine enviously as they passed by her on trays, wishing very much she could indulge in a little liquid courage. Jamie was breathtaking in his fitted black tux, hair parted over neatly and slicked down by gel. She sighed a little to herself. As much as she loved seeing him like this—dressed up and posh—she desperately missed seeing him in his more natural setting, surrounded by mountains on the Ridge, wind running through his ruddy curls, ruffling them about with abandon.

He watched her as she made her way across the room, holding her eyes the entire time. She heard a rushing in her ears as she got closer and for a minute she was worried that people would notice. The way he was looking at her—unguarded and burning—was enough to set her on fire. The way that she was walking towards him, mesmerized, all but tripping over her own feet in her haste, was sure to draw more than one curious glance. But then she realized she didn’t care.

She went to stand at the bar, as close to him as she dared, asking for a glass of water, before turning her head just slightly towards him. The tilt of his jaw let her know that she had his full attention.

“We need to talk.” She said under her breath.

An immediate, almost imperceptible nod. “Aye.”

She gulped the water before setting the glass back down, turning just a bit to give him one final message.

“Meet me in the women’s restroom upstairs. Five minutes.”

*****

As soon as she heard the bathroom door open behind her, she knew it was him, though she couldn’t bring herself to look up at him in the reflection of the bathroom mirror. She stood facing away from the door, braced against the counter, trying to control her breathing. She’d meant to hold herself back from him, for a time. Whatever his reasons had been, he had left her and she was so angry at him that she sometimes felt choked with it. But then…

“Mo chridhe…”

She was done. With a loud, incoherent squawk, she turned and threw herself into his arms, shaking and babbling nonsense in his chest as his arms wrapped tight around her, practically crushing her.

“Claire, I—” He said, swallowing thickly, cheek pressed against the top of her head. “I’m so sorry, my love.”

She nodded, speechless, as she pressed herself against him, unable to get close enough.

He brought a hand up to cup the back her head and took a deep, shuddering breath. “I’ve missed you.”

She shook so that it was a moment before she could bring herself to speak. “Missed you too.” She finally mewled, trembling in his arms.

“I dinna ken what I was thinking.”

She laughed, hiccuping a bit with emotion. “You’re a bloody fool, James Fraser.”

“Aye, I am.” He nodded, beaming, before his eyes changed and he bit his lip, suddenly anxious. “Will ye have me still? For I am a fool, Claire, with nothing to give—”

She choked out an incredulous laugh before pulling his face down to hers and kissing him with everything she had, letting out a loud whimper at the feeling of his lips on hers again. It was several moments before she pulled back, both of them breathing heavy, as he let his forehead rest against hers.

She took him firmly by the nape with both hands. “I will have you anyway I can.” She sobbed softly, voice low and heavy with emotion.

If she could have somehow recorded the small, joyful cry he let out in response to that declaration, she would have listened to it on a loop every day for the rest of her life. They stood there for a long time, holding one another, swaying slightly, before Claire pulled back, ready to get down to the rest of the business at hand.

“I need to tell you something.” She ran her hands down his chest, taking a firm hold of his lapels. “I’m leaving Frank. As soon as I can find a good lawyer.”

His eyes went wide with panic. “Sassenach—Claire—ye canna—”

“I can.” She nodded, doing her best to tell him with her eyes that she would not be moved from this course. “And I will.”

He frowned. “But what about—”

“It doesn’t matter. None of it does,” she insisted, hand coming down to stroke her stomach without thought. He noticed this, and looked back up at her, eyes brimming with a million different emotions.

She swallowed. “There’s something else.”

“What is it Claire?” His eyes searched hers, full of concern and unbridled devotion.

A deep breath, and a shy smile. “Jamie, I’m—”

The door burst open, revealing a frantic looking John Grey who unfortunately didn’t have time to say anything before Frank rudely shoved past him, accompanied by Hector.

“Well, well.” He crowed, grinning wickedly. “Mr. Fraser, what a lovely surprise.”

Claire stepped instinctively in front of Jamie, squaring her shoulders.

“Go away Frank.” She growled.

“Now darling, I’m hurt.” He sneered. “If all you wanted was a quick fuck in a public restroom, you could’ve just asked.”

She didn’t even think about it before she slapped him hard across the face, with a force that surprised her as much as him as he stumbled back a few steps. She’d mostly done it because she was afraid what Jamie would do if she didn’t act first—but damn her if it didn't feel good. Really good. Frank eyed her, arrogant smirk nowhere to be seen, as he rubbed his cheek tenderly.

“I think that’s enough fun for now.” He grumbled, clearly no longer enjoying the confrontation. He grabbed her by the arm, hard enough to cause bruises. “Come on. People will notice we’re missing.”

“Let go of me!” She barked, pulling against his grip.

Jamie looked truly ferocious, and Claire almost wanted to laugh at the fact that if Frank weren’t surrounded by armed guards, he’d likely have pissed his pants.

“Claire!” Jamie snarled as Frank hauled her through the door.

She could hear the sounds of Jamie struggling as Hector and John held him back. Frank managed to pull her into the hall just outside the bathroom before she absolutely lost it.

“Franklin Wolverton Randall!” She roared, pulling back against his grip with all her might. “I swear to God—unless you want me to make a scene of almighty proportions, I suggest you let me go this fucking instant!”

Frank then let her go, looking down at her as though she’d gone absolutely mad. He was opening his mouth to say something, when a voice from behind them brought him up short.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Randall?”

The first thing Claire noticed was that the boy seemed awfully young to be attending an event like this. The second thing she noticed was that he had a gun. From then on, everything happened in slow motion.

For the rest of her life, Claire would only ever be able to recall those few crucial seconds of her life in a series of fragmented recollections. Frank pushing her away as he scurried back to the shadows. Agents shouting. Jamie’s arms coming around her, his body pressing her down against the cold marble floor.

And the sound of gunshots.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER SIXTEEN WILL POST VERRA SOON!! ❤️❤️❤️❤️


	16. Dallas: Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't yet, go back a chapter and check out Dallas Part One!

March 22nd, 1954 

Awareness did not leave him entirely, though he struggled to hang on, grabbing out at consciousness with weak arms and trying to make sense of the chaos around him. He’d been shot before—in the war. A bullet to the shoulder that went straight through; in the grand scheme of things, barely a blip on his radar.

But this… this was different. This hurt. A lot. The bullet had struck him on his side as he’d turned his body into Claire before pushing her to the ground. It was then that he became aware that Claire was no longer beneath him and that he was lying on his back. He strained upward, just a bit, falling back weakly, but willing himself to open his eyes so he could look for her. Willing his mouth to move so he could ask where she was, if she was okay.

That’s when he heard them. Voices. Flying around him like shrapnel on a battlefield.

“You have to come with us ma’am!”

He heard the vague intonation of a growl somewhere near his head and grunted, feeling the pressure of small hands pressing into his wound.

“...Ma’am...protocol...” the voice faded in and out, “... we have to...”

“I don’t care!” She roared back. “I am not leaving him!”

He relaxed at once hearing Claire’s voice. She was safe. She was there. All was well.

******

“Mr. Grey!” Claire barked, not taking her eyes off of Jamie as she ripped his shirt open.

“I’m here!” The young agent answered, coming to crouch down beside her.

“Do I, or do I not…” she snarled through gritted teeth, “have the right to decline Secret Service protection?”

Grey swallowed. “You do, ma’am.”

“Well then.” She bit back to Richard Brown and the other agents standing behind her. “Consider it declined.”

Grey stood up, moving in an effort to usher the crowd away as Claire went about her work.

“She’s right.” He once again confirmed. “The President is the only one who can’t refuse our protection.”

“We can’t just—” Brown sputtered.

“I’ll stay with her.” Grey offered, though he was planning to do just that whether he was ordered to or not.

“So will I,” said Elias Pound, appearing out of nowhere by John’s side.

Brown looked like he might try to argue more before he was distracted by the growing commotion around him.

“Fine,” he spat, before turning to the other agents. “We need to secure the building.”

He stalked off, speaking into his earpiece as he went. “Foster, is the suspect in custody?”

He was. Hector had gotten him to the ground after the first couple of shots and wrestled the gun away. Fraser was the only one hit. Now on their own, Grey and Pound turned their attention back to the First Lady.

“Is there anything we can do, ma’am?”

She was pressing hard on Fraser’s side, every whimper or sound of distress from him clearly hitting her like a knife in the heart.

“You can tell me where the goddamned ambulance is!” She seethed, nearly mad with panic.

“On it’s way ma’am!” John assured her, doing his best to soothe her, even though the quickly draining pallor of Fraser’s face was making him incredibly uneasy.

“Claire…” Fraser gasped out, making them all jump.

“I’m here!” She wailed out immediately, tears pooling instantly at the sound of his voice. “I’m right here, Jamie! Can you hear me?”

“Aye....” He breathed, eyes open but hazy.

Claire leaned in close then, pressing her lips to his ear, speaking her next words for him and him alone.

“I asked you before, and you didn’t listen…” she whispered, tears hot on her face. “This time, I’ll beg. Please don’t leave me Jamie Fraser. Please.” 

His eyes closed again, and at first she thought he’d slipped out of consciousness again. Just as she pulled back, he breathed out and whispered back, so quietly, she almost didn’t hear him.

“Never.”

******

Claire was given a private waiting room at the hospital, though she insisted she didn’t need one. She wasn’t the First Lady anymore, as far as she was concerned. Mary, dear thing that she was, brought her a change of clothes— a simple sweater and trousers—staying with her as the minutes drug on.

Three hours after they’d arrived in the ambulance, Nora Randall arrived, still in her dress from the gala.

“What on earth happened?!” She asked, holding out her arms to Claire.

Claire all but collapsed into her mother-in-law’s embrace, recounting the shooting through a blubbering of racking sobs. By the time she’d finished, they sat side by side on the couch, Nora holding Claire close, rocking gently.

“Ssh, my darling girl.” She cooed soothingly. “It’s going to be alright.”

She stroked her hair for several more minutes as Claire slowly calmed.

“He’s a sturdy one, your Fraser.” She eventually laughed wryly, making Claire pull back in alarm.

“My Fraser?” Claire repeated back, unsure she’d heard her correctly. “How did you—?”

Nora smiled at her, a little sadly, running a calming hand up and down her back. “I’ve known enough heartbreak in my life to know when I see it.”

Claire was stunned, utterly speechless, swallowing an enormous lump in her throat.

“He’s a good one,” the older woman whispered, cupping Claire’s cheek.

Claire laughed a little at that, nodding. “I know.”

Taking Claire’s hands in hers, Nora imploringly looked Claire in the eye.

“No matter what you decide to do Claire, I want you to remember one thing.” She said, eyes brimming with an emotion Claire couldn’t quite place. “You will always be my daughter. Do you hear me?”

All the air left her lungs at once as Claire collapsed once more into Nora’s arms, nodding and babbling nonsensical words of love and gratitude. They embraced for a long time, before Nora pulled back, tenderly wiping the tears from Claire’s cheeks.

“I hate that I can’t stay here with you. But I’m afraid I’ve got to go.” She said, huffing a little as she stood. “I’ll be lying pretty low for a while, but I will call and check in on you as soon as I can.”

Claire looked up at her, eyes wide with concern: “Is something wrong?”

Nora beamed down at her, her eyes yet again teary with emotions that Claire couldn’t name.

“No, not at all.” She bent, pressing a kiss to Claire’s forehead. “You’ll understand soon enough.”

She walked away, heels clicking on the floor as Claire stared after her, still not quite sure what to make of the exchange. Just as she reached the door, Nora paused, smiling back over her shoulder.

“Oh, and once Fraser recovers, be a dear and tell him that if he ever gets himself shot again, I’ll make sure he regrets it.”

Claire barked out a surprised laugh. “I will.”

A parting wink, and then she was gone.

******

“Mrs. Randall?”

She stood up at once, hastily wiping her face. “Yes?”

The man she recognized as Jamie’s doctor was walking towards her, dressed in light blue scrubs, a pair of tiny and round glasses perched on the end of his long, hooked nose. He smiled at Claire encouragingly, and she felt herself relax, even if only barely.

“We were able to remove the whole bullet. He’s resting now,” the doctor explained in a low, authoritative voice. “However, he lost quite a bit of blood, and we won’t know how extensive the damage is until he wakes up.”

Claire nodded, willing herself not to cry. “Can I see him?”

“You can.” He began apprehensively. “But you should prepare yourself. I’m afraid he’s still quite critical. We’re going to have to monitor him very closely over the next 24 hours. Given the nature of his injury, there’s still a considerable risk for organ failure.”

“He’s going to be okay, though?” John Grey asked, appearing from behind the doctor. Claire blinked at him in surprise. She hadn’t seen Grey since they’d arrived at the hospital, her only protection being the ever watchful eye of Elias Pound just outside of the waiting room door. Not that she’d spent any time worrying about it.

The doctor considered, warily. “Let’s just see how he fairs through the night.”

She felt her heart clench in her chest and nearly doubled over.

“Once he’s set up in the ICU, I’ll have a nurse come back to bring you to him,” the doctor said, putting a comforting hand on Claire’s shoulder before leaving the room.

There was a long, tense silence as Claire processed the new information. Finally, she turned a pair of tear-stained eyes to Mary.

“He has a sister.” She sniffed, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. “Back in Scotland. Jenny is her name. Can you make sure someone contacts her?”

“Of course ma’am,” Mary nodded, scurrying out of the room, clearly relieved to have been given a task.

“When did you get back?” Claire asked, turning her attention to Grey.

He appraised her through narrowed eyes. “Just a few minutes ago.”

She nodded, rubbing her hands together anxiously, eyes watching the doorway for the nurse that would take her to Jamie.

“They’ve put the President back on Air Force One.” John offered quietly, tapping his foot. “I’m not sure where they’re headed—most likely back to Washington.”

Claire hadn’t spared a thought for Frank since he’d dragged her out of the bathroom back at the gala. She supposed she should at least pretend to care about his whereabouts, but she could manage no more than a quiet grunt of acknowledgement as she set about pacing around the room.

“Ma’am I—” John’s cracked voice made her stop and look up.

“What is it?” She asked, eyes immediately going to the envelope he held in his hands. “What is that?”

John looked down at the envelope, indecision written in every line of his face.

“He gave it to me. The morning he left.” He swallowed. “He told me to wait until the next election, but…”

He hesitated for another moment before nodding his head in decision and stepping forward, envelope in his outstretched hand.

“Well, given what’s happened—I thought you’d want to see it now.”

He left her alone then, going to stand outside the door with Agent Pound. With trembling hands, she opened the letter.

*****

Claire,

Mo Chridhe. Sassenach. Mo nighean donn. Luaidh mo chèile. I know now why there are so many different names for God; one small word is not enough for love.

If John and Mary have done as I asked, you’ll know by now why it is I had to go from you when I did. I don’t think I have to tell you that I left my heart to your keeping. I could not take it with me. It’s not mine anymore.

It’s a tricky business, learning how to live without a heart. I will do it for your sake, though I’m not sure I will survive it. Or if I even want to.

I feel I should beg you to try and forget me. To find some happiness in your life. But as selfish as it sounds, I canna bear the thought of you forgetting. Loving you has been the greatest adventure of my life. I want you to keep me safe, always, where I belong—buried deep down in the secret places inside of you.

The war took so much from me. Happiness, peace, laughter. And worst of all, it took my home away. When I returned to Scotland, I could not look about the green hills without seeing the bodies, slain upon the battlefield. For so long I wondered when I would find a home again. Whether I would find one at all. And then, one day, home fell into my arms, clutching a bottle of whisky. You gave it all back to me, Claire. Piece by piece. Not just home, but all the rest as well. For that alone, I owe you my soul.

I tried to pray this morning. I begged God to give me the strength to leave you. But he didna answer me. And then I turned and saw yer sleeping face. I found my strength in you, mo chridhe.

Leaving you is the only way I can keep you safe now. I will spend my life protecting you. Not because of the oath I swore, but because it is was what I was born to do.

There is no where you could go, my Sassenach, where I would not be with you.

All my love, always,

Jamie

*****

She’d never relished in the various perks that came with her position. Not until now. Normally, she knew she would not have been allowed to stay in Jamie’s room past visiting hours. However, given that no one was particularly eager to drag the First Lady from the bedside of the Agent that had just saved her life, she stayed with him through the night and into the morning.

She held his hand and spoke to him, words of devotion and love that she didn’t know she’d been waiting to say forming effortlessly on her lips.

“I want you to take me to Scotland,” she whispered, smiling as she rubbed circles on his palm with her thumb. “I want to see Lallybroch. I want to meet your family.”

She studied the lines of his face, trying to imagine them melded together with the lines of her own—the knowledge that such a vision would not forever be confined to the boundaries of her fantasies was almost enough to lift the firm grip of fear on her heart.

She almost told him then—so longing to say the words out loud, even if it was to someone who couldn’t respond to her. No matter how sure she was that he could hear her—and she was sure—she couldn’t bear the thought of telling him when he couldn’t react. When he was trapped in the shadowy confines of his subconscious, as his body rested and healed. Instead, she simply let go and let the secrets of her heart flow into him, a sacrifice and a plea.

“For so long, I have been so many different women. Niece to Lamb, nurse to the soldiers in France, wife to Frank- and First Lady to the world,” she added wryly. “For years, I’ve let myself be worn away by people who didn’t see me. And after a time, I couldn’t see me either.”

She paused, savoring the beeping of the machines as they sang out the steady, unyielding beat of his heart.

“I’ll never forget the first time I saw you. You looked so directly at me, I swear it took my breath away.” She smiled wistfully. “You made the world come alive around me. You made me want to fight for something more. Made me realize I could fight for something more.”

She squeezed his hand and brought it to her lips.

“You do so much more than just protect me,” she whispered against his hand. “You make me brave enough to protect myself.”

*****

March 23rd, 1954 

She didn’t leave the room until the doctors came back late next morning to check his vitals. Wanting to give them space, she hovered outside the door with her agents.

“You two are going to have to get some sleep at some point,” she demanded, eying them sternly.

“Don’t worry about us ma’am,” Elias Pound insisted, smiling at her warmly.

John Grey nodded, clapping Elias on the shoulder. “Yes, not to worry. We’ll get ourselves sorted.”

Claire was about to press the matter further when she was distracted by a blur of red, hurtling around the corner of the hospital corridor.

“Geilis? What are you doing here?” She gasped, as her Chief of Staff appeared out of nowhere and drug her away, Grey and Pound following closely behind, looking equally confused.

Without answering, Geillis lead them to an empty patient room down the hall, where her assistants were waiting with stacks of newspapers.

“What is all of this?” Claire asked, blinking down at the newest issue of The Washington Post that had just been thrust into her hands.

“Someone just leaked the biggest story of the century.” Geillis informed her, handing Claire her reading glasses. “Pictures of the President with quite a few different women, photocopies of love letters he’s exchanged with them over the years, and that’s not even the best part!”

Claire wasn’t sure if she could manage to process any more information just yet, but unfortunately she wasn’t given a choice in the matter.

“Ssh be quiet I can’t hear!” John Grey admonished, having tuned the tv in the corner to a station that was covering the story.

The image of the announcer flickered on screen, as he read from the press release in his hand.

“The source also provided financial records that seem to indicate that the President, and his father Ted Randall, were engaged in a conspiracy to award high paying government contracts to allies in the private sector in exchange for favors. It would appear that both men have used such arrangements for various purposes, including securing luxurious housing accommodations with women they have been involved with romantically throughout the years.”

The announcer’s voice faded away as Claire began to truly take in what was happening.

“Oh. My. God.” She sputtered.

“In case it is no’ clear, Claire,” Geillis smirked at her, “I want the manuscript for your tell-all on my desk, yesterday.”

Claire swallowed, suppressing a smile, still trying to fight the hope rising rapidly in her chest. “He’s done then, right? I mean- even he can’t come back from this… can he?”

Geillis laughed out loud at that. “The man will be lucky if he avoids federal prison,” she insisted, a hand on Claire’s shoulder, giving her a gentle shake. “You should see them on the Hill, lass, they’re going absolutely nuts. Forming special committees fast enough to make your head spin! I give it a month.”

“A month for what?” Claire asked, still fairly dazed.

“Until he’s forced to resign.” Geillis said, getting a little exasperated with Claire’s failure to keep up. “The Randalls aren’t made to weather an impeachment.”

Claire’s mouth fell open, before she erupted into a fit of joyous laughter.

“Mrs. Randall!” It was Mary, bursting into the room, flushed and breathless. “You’ve got about a thousand messages.”

“Half of them from divorce lawyers, I’ll bet.” Geillis muttered, shaking her head. “Send them all through my office lass, we’ll sort through them.”

“Yes of course.” Mary nodded, turning to Claire, a small note in her hand. “Though, I do think you’ll want to read this one for yourself, ma’am.”

Claire took the small card in her hand, brow furrowed in confusion. “Who’s it from?”

Mary shrugged, barely hiding a sly smile. “It didn’t say.”

Flipping the card open, she saw a very short message written in a familiar elegant scrawl. 

 

You get a life now, my dear. Live it well. For both of us.

P.S.~ Tell Fraser I found the third option.

 

Claire barely had a second to process this before the door flew open again.

“Mrs. Randall!” One of Jamie’s nurses had joined their party in the small room, beaming at Claire. “He’s awake. And he’s asking for you.”


	17. Dreams & Miracles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to beta @lburks226 and to all of you for your overwhelmingly wonderful support!! I love seeing your comments and I try to get to as many of them as you can!! Please know that each one is seen and appreciated more than words can say. 
> 
> We have to start wrapping things up now but dinna fash! We’ve still got two more chapters plus an epilogue! 💕💕

March, 1954

She walked slowly, feeling as though she were in a dream. None of it felt real. She’d been prepared for a fight—an almighty reckoning on a battlefield as she took her life back from Frank, whatever the cost. And now, he’d been struck down before any of it could truly begin. She could see it now: the life she would have. The life she would have with Jamie, hers for the taking.

She could feel the air whooshing through her parted lips, her heartbeats keeping time with her footsteps as she got closer, closer, until—

She touched the cool metal of the door handle. He was on the other side. She could feel him there. A deep breath. Another. She opened the door quietly so as not to wake him, in case he’d fallen asleep again. He wasn’t asleep, but he didn’t look up when she came in. He was looking out the window, the golden light of the rising sun dancing across him, igniting the red of his hair. He was breathtaking. He was a miracle. Her miracle.

Suddenly she was struck by it all. Everything they’d overcome to get to this moment. She couldn’t stop the strangled, incoherent sound that escaped her. Hearing her, he looked up at once. She watched, in slow motion, as his face crumbled in the chaos of relief and joy.

“You’re here?” He croaked.

She barked a half laugh, half sob. “Where else would I be?”

He wasn’t hiding from her, no longer wearing the mask. It was all on display for her to see. The relief, the joy—almost painful in its intensity. She took a step forward. Another. His eyes fixated on her, burning.

“Are you okay?” She asked, voice breaking.

He nodded, looking himself down once just to be sure. “I think so.”

His eyes were on her now, soft and loving. “You?”

She broke down then, relief and love flooding through her like a drug. “I am now.” She sobbed, hand pressed hard against her mouth.

His breath hitched as he held out his arms to her. She stumbled forward, blinded by tears, taking care to approach him on his unwounded side as she collapsed into his arms. She slipped off her shoes and slid into bed beside him, pressing herself against him. She relished in the heat of him, feeling him—feeling him alive—there, next to her.

“Jamie.” She whispered, running a hand across his chest and up his neck, cupping his cheek before finally curving around his skull and gripping his ruddy curls.

Once, when she was eleven or so, she’d gone on an expedition with Lamb in the Gobi Desert. She could still remember coming back to the campsite at the end of each day, refilling her long and dry canteen, euphoric relief permeating through her body as she felt the rush of cool water on her dry throat. She couldn’t get enough, gulping and gulping until she was forced to pull away, gasping for air.

It was a similar frantic madness she felt as she molded herself to Jamie, eager to feel the flesh she’d been dreaming of for weeks on end. She felt lightheaded, blinking back the swell of emotion that threatened to overwhelm her.

She knew she should let him rest. She should wait until he was a little stronger. But her heart was so full of everything: joy, relief, hope, love. She couldn’t contain it.

“Jamie.” She spoke louder this time to get his attention as she pulled back from their embrace, wiping her eyes.

Jamie frowned, concerned. “What’s wrong?”

She made an effort to compose herself, wanting this moment to be perfect. “I have to tell you something.”

His frown deepened. “You’re scaring me Claire.”

She absorbed the look in his anxious eyes and her face softened as she cupped his cheek. “Oh, my love. There’s nothing to be scared of. Not anymore.” 

He tilted his head to one side, eyeing her suspiciously. She ran her other hand up to rest at the center of his chest.

A deep breath. She looked into his face and saw everything she ever wanted—truly and finally hers for the taking. She smiled at him, eyes already filling with the happiest tears.

“You’re going to be a father, Jamie.” She finally whispered, raking her nails across the stubble at his jaw.

He didn’t respond at first, staring blankly at her. Blinking. Not comprehending.

“What?” He blurted, face changing as her words sank in. “What did you say?”

She linked her hands behind his neck, leaning in to drop her forehead against his.

“I’m pregnant.” She whispered, confirming the impossible hope that was already hiding in the shadows of his mind.

He continued to say nothing, blinking back at her with a stunned look in his eyes. Mouth working, yet unable to produce sound. Laughing a little, she leaned in, wrapping her arms around him, tucking her chin into the curve of his neck.

“I was going to tell you before, but then you went and got yourself shot.” She smirked, wanting to lighten the mood. “Typical man, always stealing the spotlight.”

He gripped her by the nape, pulling her back to look up into her face. He was everything at once—frantic, hopeful, guarded.

“If this is a joke, Sassenach, I’ll tell ye right now it’s no’ funny.” His eyes were already brimming with tears and his voice was low, husky with emotion.

She laughed, shaking her head. “It’s not a joke, Jamie!” She pulled him in close, lips hovering just over his. “I promise.”

His hands cupped her cheeks, his lower lip trembling. “Truly? You—we —we’re going to have a bairn?”

His eyes were wide, vulnerable, shining with ecstatic love and devotion.

The tears slipped down her face and off her jaw, one by one, as she nodded. “We are.”

He shook his head in wonder. “But I thought you werena able to—?”

“I was wrong.” She shrugged, laughing a little through the tears. “They did all sorts of tests after I figured out I was pregnant. Turns out I’m perfectly capable—”

He crushed her against him then, mouth on hers, hot and urgent. She grew dizzy with the want of him—the relief of touching him again, the joy of the future she knew they would share together, bubbled in her veins like expensive champagne. If it hadn’t been for the fresh wound on his side, she would’ve had him there on the hospital bed.

She pulled back, attempting to slow down her heavy breathing.

“Jamie!” She laughed, trying and failing to admonish him. “Be careful, you’re going to hurt—”

“I dinna care!” He reached for her, trying to pull her back towards him.

“Well I do!” She insisted, pushing him gently back down by the shoulders. “This little one is going to be here in six short months. I need you to focus on getting well. I need you to be whole.”

His eyes softened as he reached up to cup her cheek.

“I am mo chridhe.” He said in a low, husky voice. “Finally.”

*****

They kept Jamie in the hospital for another four days and Claire didn’t leave his side. Not that she could if she wanted to—Jamie was loathe to let her out of his sight. They spent the days basking in their bubble of unhurried bliss. Claire would read to Jamie from the papers, careful to avoid any mention of Frank—a task that often remained challenging as her soon-to-be ex-husband took up most of the national conversation.

Jamie and Geillis helped Claire select her divorce lawyer—a job that proved overwhelming even with all three of them. Claire had received no fewer than three hundred offers for representation. In the end, she went with Ned Gowan, a veteran family lawyer with no intention of using Claire’s part in the scandal to buy his fifteen minutes of fame.

Though he lived and worked in Virginia, he agreed to meet Claire at the Ridge once Jamie was discharged and they were able to leave Dallas. He was sitting at the kitchen table when they arrived, charming the pants off of Mrs. Bug as she served him coffee.

“I’ve been in frequent contact with the President’s lawyers,” he informed her once they finally got down to business. “Fortunately, it seems Mr. Randall is about as eager to get this done quickly and without any fuss as we are. And as the whole country has been made aware of his adultery, I don’t believe we’ll have any trouble proving acceptable grounds.”

Claire’s shoulders sagged with relief. “What do we need to do first then?”

“Really, Mrs. Randall, it’s a matter of figuring out what exactly it is you want to fight for.”

She frowned. “Fight for?”

“What assets from the marriage you want to be awarded in the divorce,” he explained, picking his tiny and round glasses off of his nose and rubbing the lenses with his tie.

Claire considered Ned’s comments for a moment. Her first instinct had been to respond: “nothing, nothing at all, just cut me free of that wretched man!” But she quickly thought again, looking around the kitchen, glowing in the warm light of the hearth fire.

“I just want this.” She declared firmly. “Nothing else.”

“This?” Ned’s brows drew together as he replaced his glasses on his nose.

“This place.” She gestured at the house around them. “The Ridge.”

Jamie’s hand came up to rest on hers on her thigh under the table. She stole a look at him under her lashes, and they shared a secret smile laced with love and memory.

“The property, you mean?” Ned asked. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.” She confirmed with a nod, grasping Jamie’s hand where it sat on her lap.

******

That night, they fell into bed soon after sunset, both of them exhausted. Some time, deep in the night, Claire rose to the surface slowly, roused by the feeling of Jamie adjusting himself and wriggling down until his head was level with her midsection.

She opened her mouth to speak, clamping it shut again almost immediately when she heard his voice, low and gravely in the dark.

“Wean? Can ye hear me?” He whispered tenderly. “It’s yer father.”

Her breath caught and she struggled not to make any noise, avoiding any possibility of ruining the moment.

“I canna wait to meet you.” His hand ran a featherlight path over her stomach, tracing, memorizing. “I was in a war, ye ken? Got myself captured and ended up a prisoner. I’ll tell ye all about it someday, when yer old enough.”

It was such a perfectly natural and fatherly thing to say that she wasn’t sure what she wanted to do more: laugh out loud or pull him up to her by the ears and kiss him breathless. Instead, she only listened.

“I remember sitting there in that cell, chained to the wall, surrounded by nightmares. My mam once told me that the best way to shake off a nightmare is to dream. The most beautiful dreams ye can think of. And so I did.”

He laid his head down, face turned toward hers, cheek pressed to her stomach. 

“I dreamt of you, mo chuisle.” A large, heavy hand reached up to rest over her heart. “And of yer mam. Even though I didna ken her yet.”

He turned his head to plant a warm kiss on her abdomen before laying flat again.

“You were my dream.”

The tears were falling in earnest now and she couldn’t stop the hitch of her breath nor the soft sob that escaped through her parted lips. He looked up, the tenderness in his face morphing into alarm.

“What is it Sassenach?” He came up next to her on the pillows, both hands cupping her cheeks. “Are ye alright?”

She nodded, swallowing hard. “Yes. I just- I just-”

“What is it?” His thumbs working in smoothing arches across her cheekbones, wiping away her tears.

“I just- I love you so much.” She sobbed, clinging to him with all her might.

All the breath seemed to leave him at once as he gripped her. She searched her memory, trying to remember if they’d said it before. Had they ever actually said the words? Surely they had. She’d known it of him, just as surely as he’d known it of her.

He smiled, eyes glistening, as he dropped his forehead to hers. “I love ye too, Claire.”

Bringing his mouth to hers, gently at first, enveloping her in his warmth as the kiss deepened. The kiss quickly grew into something more—something urgent. Jamie’s arms snaked around her, low on her waist.

“Can we…?” He grunted breathlessly, hesitantly. “... w’ the bairn?”

She nodded, already fumbling with the hem of her nightdress. “Yes, it’s fine. Please.”

He shimmied out of his briefs as she slipped off the cool silk fabric and then they pressed up against one another, skin to skin, hungry for more. She was about to roll onto her back and lay herself out at his mercy when she felt the faint trembling of his muscles. He was still weak. She put a hand on his shoulder, gently pushing him to lie back.

“Let me?” She whispered.

He nodded, eyes wide and reverential as she climbed on top of him. She lay out at length, fully on top of him for a long while, as they kissed slowly and languidly. His hands ran up and down her sides, fingers tracing lightly over the newly visible curve of her stomach, calloused palms traveling smoothly down her hips, curving around the swell of her arse.

She smiled against his mouth when he began to wiggle and writhe beneath her, hips bucking as he grunted and whined his impatience.

“Sassenach,” he growled.

“Hmmm?” She hummed against his neck as she began to suck and bite at the sensitive skin there.

“Were ye- ah!” He hissed at the swipe of her tongue over the shell of his ear. “Were ye plannin’ to get on w’ it any time soon?”

“Well, you know me.” She shrugged, wriggling her own hips a little to create a delicious friction that was nowhere near enough. “I’m not much of a planner.”

“Claire.” He panted, fingers pressing hard into her flesh as he tried to move her the way he needed.

She lifted herself up, bracing herself with her hands on either side of his head. She looked down at him for a long time, drinking in the sight of him. Lips parted, chest heaving, hooded eyes trained on her, raging with desire and completely under her power. Generally, when it came to sex, Jamie took charge, driving her to distraction and working her into a trembling, begging frenzy. But now he was at her mercy and she was damn near delirious with wanting at the mere thought.

Pressing her brow to his, she stated a simple demand: “Ask me nicely.”

He absorbed a sharp intake of breath, ending on a groan. “Please, Sassenach.” 

Her eyes didn’t leave his as she reached down between them, taking him in her hand. When she finally settled down on him, the air seemingly evaporated around the two of them. She realized with a jolt that this was the first time they’d made love since finding their way back to one another. Looking in his eyes, she knew he was thinking the same thing.

In this room, in this bed, in this same holy darkness. But now, as she rose and fell over him, hands placed on his chest, gently—so gently—mindful not to put too much weight on his wounded side, there was no sorrow. No despair in a future spent alone and yearning. Only joy— ecstatic, all consuming joy for the life they would build together.

Still, she couldn't prevent the wave of fear and anguish that rolled through her as she recalled that last night together, and she couldn't stop it from showing on her face. He sat up, suddenly, making her yelp out in surprise as he crushed her against him, one hand pressing to the back of her neck, an arm wrapping around the small of her back.

"I will never leave ye again," he promised, breathing into her open mouth. "I swear it."

Overcome by a sudden surge of a thousand different feelings she couldn't name, she growled and pushed him back down, only sparing a moment's pause at the faint grunt he released when she unintentionally pressed into his left side. Assured that she'd done no damage, she put her hands on his shoulders, nails digging into his flesh.

He moaned loudly as the agonizingly steady roll of her hips worked him over. She drew him to the brink of madness, again and again. There was a time he would've thought submission to be a sign of weakness. Now he saw the act for what it was—a sacred exchange of trust and certainty, a trial by combat for atonement.

"Please—” He begged through gritted teeth. "I need....."

She bent down, nibbling at his neck. "What do you need Jamie?"

He huffed, running his fingers up into the mass of her hair, nails scraping at her scalp.

"You." He whispered. "Always you. Only you."

She breathed a small sound of surrender into his mouth.

"I'm yours." She whispered back, letting a single hot tear fall onto his cheek. "Forever."

He groaned, bringing a hand up to settle between her parted legs, aiding her in her search for completion.

"Jamie..." she sighed, her steady rhythm suddenly faltering.

"Aye." He breathed. "Take what ye will from me Claire. I don't have much, but all of it's yours."

She released a violent sob as she brought herself up, hands on his chest, working herself to a racking, throbbing finish that made Jamie cross-eyed with the effort to hold off on his own.

When he did finish—with a force that astounded him—they curled up together in the sheets, taking comfort in the warmth of one another's arms and in the promise of tomorrow.

******

The days on the Ridge passed by at a more languid pace now that there was no dreaded return to Washington looming out before them. The divorce was handled quickly and without much trouble, just as Ned had promised. Jamie was appalled when Frank didn’t reach out once, not even to ensure that the woman he’d kept as a wife for more than a decade was safe and well taken care of. Nonetheless, he kept his mouth shut when he saw how relieved Claire was not to have to deal with him any more than was necessary.

They kept largely to themselves, both of them terrified that Frank would find out about the baby and try to claim it as his. Ned Gowan assured them that the law wouldn’t be on his side should he choose to chart such a vengeful course, but they played it safe just the same. They were awarded the deed for the Ridge without contest. Claire was asked repeatedly if she was sure she wouldn’t reconsider her decision to refuse alimony. She was determined to be free of him completely, unable to bear the thought of remaining tied to him in any way. Jamie was relieved as well, not too crazy about the idea himself.

In the end, she was persuaded by Ned and Geillis, among others, to accept an allocation of a sum of money that would be calculated based on the time and labour she dispensed in her position as First Lady. Not a parting gift from a toxic marriage, but the money she had rightfully earned.

********

May 1954

The divorce was finalized on a cloudless sunny day, celebrated with a bottle of champagne (sparkling cider for Claire) on the back porch at the Ridge, the mountains rolling out like the waves of a great green sea before them.

He took in the array of smiling faces around them. John Grey and Elias Pound—brave men who had stood by his side, bound by their duty of protection and service. Geillis Duncan and Mary Hawkins—Claire’s devoted soldiers and among the fiercest warriors Jamie had ever known. They were almost like a family, in their own way. Jamie could admit that it was a little bittersweet, knowing that this was likely the last time they would all be together. With the divorce official, Claire was no longer the First Lady and therefore no longer in need of armed guards, chiefs of staffs, or personal assistants. He was sad to see them go, but delighted in the future they would chart for themselves.

“Congratulations Miss Beauchamp!” They all cheered, toasting her with raised glasses.

Claire grinned, giddy with the evocation of her maiden name, but stole a quick glance at Jamie as she squeezed his hand. He squeezed back. She hadn’t actually bothered to have her name legally changed. There wasn’t much of a point. Her name would be changing again soon enough.

That night, Jamie took her to bed, loving her again and again while rejoicing in the knowledge that this woman—and the child that grew within her—were both his. His to love, to keep, to and protect. Forever.

******  
The next day, Jamie slept late—a treasured rarity—only rousing when the sound of Claire’s shrieks had him bolting out of bed.

“Jamie!” She bellowed from the bottom of the stairs. “Jamie, come down here quick!”

He threw on a shirt and pants, tumbling barefoot down the steps, ruddy hair flopping about with abandon.

“Claire! What is it? Is everythin—?”

He stopped short when he turned into the living room to see Claire beaming up at a tall, slender woman with pale blonde hair.

“Mrs. Randall.” Jamie smiled warmly at her, bowing his head in greeting from a respectful distance. In response, she rolled her eyes and marched over to him, pulling him into a hug and making him stumble a bit in surprise.

“Please, Jamie, call me Nora,” she insisted as she finally pulled back. “Besides, I’m not a Randall anymore. At least I won’t be for long.” 

They both gaped at her in shock.

“You mean-?” Claire sputtered.

She put an arm around her, steering her in the direction of the kitchen. “Let’s make some tea, hmm? We have a lot to catch up on.”

They sat around the table for hours as Nora filled them in. Jamie and Claire had shut out the outside world, wanting to spend this time together in the quiet peace of the mountains, out of reach of the claws of scandal and intrigue.

“He’ll resign at the end of the month,” Nora said solemnly, hands wrapped around her tea cup. “He’s made a deal with the committee and with the special prosecutor. Teddy too. They won’t do jail time, but they’ll be surrendering most of their assets. They’ll be penniless.”

Jamie and Claire listened with detached interest, both of them too happy to waste much thought on Frank Randall and his well-deserved downfall.

“What will you do?” Claire asked, more concerned with the welfare of her erstwhile mother-in-law.

Nora smiled fondly at her. “Don’t worry about me. I’ve been putting away money in a secret savings account for decades. I’ll be more than comfortable.”   
She said this matter of factly before sipping her tea with casual grace.

“I didn’t take anything I didn’t earn,” shrugging as they gaped at her in astonishment. “Believe me.”

“What of you’re….” Jamie cleared his throat. “... other children, ma’am?”

Nora’s face fell and she shifted in her seat. Jamie put a hand on her shoulder.

“After what you did for us, I…” Jamie looked at Claire, then back at Nora. “I hate the thought of them—”

She waved a dismissive hand at him, smiling. “They’ll understand one day. And if they don’t…” she shrugged, “... then I’ll have to live with that.”

Claire reached over and took her hands. “I hope you meant what you said….that I would always be your daughter…”

Nora nodded emphatically. “Of course.”

“Good.” Claire smiled, rubbing her round stomach. “Baby Fraser is going to need a grandmother after all.”

*****

Sometime later, Claire took Nora out to see her garden, Jamie opting to stay behind and take a shower. Just as he descended the stairs, freshly washed hair still damp, there was a knock at the door.

“Iffrin!” He exclaimed, eyes wide with shock as he stared through the now open door. “Murtagh? It it really you?”

Murtagh Fitzgibbons Fraser stared at him from across the threshold.

“Aye.” He grumbled. “Ye tellin’ me ye canna recognize yer own godfather?”

Jamie gaped at him for a long moment until Murtagh finally nodded his head towards the inside of the house.

“Ye gonna invite me in?”

“Oh.” Jamie blinked, moving aside. “Aye.”

Murtagh followed him into the kitchen, looking around, appearing almost impressed. “Nice place.”

After a long and tense silence, the older man finally pulled the younger one into a gruff embrace.

“Come here ye loon!”

“It’s good to see ye.” Jamie smiled, patting his shoulder as they pulled apart. “But what the hell are ye doin’ here?”

“Yer sister. Ye asked her to send ye this, no?” He said, reaching into his jacket and pulling out a small velvet box. “She didna want to ship it. Said it was too valuable. Would ha’ brought it herself if she was no’ so far gone with child.”

Jamie’s eyes bugged out. “Again?”

“Aye.” Murtagh chuckled. “So she bid me bring it to ye in her stead.”

He handed Jamie the box.

“That, and one other thing.”

“What other thing?”

Jamie didn’t have time to react before Murtagh swatted him hard on the back of the head.

“What were ye thinkin’ ye clotheid?” He demanded, swatting him again for good measure. “Gettin’ yerself shot by a ravin’ lunatic!”

“Tis no’ as though I had any choice in the matter!” He retorted, shoving his godfather. “But Christ, man—I mean it, ‘tis truly good to see ye again.”

Murtagh looked him up and down, the beginnings of a smile peaking out on his weathered face. “Ye seem different.”

“Aye? How so?”

“I dinna ken.” He mumbled. “Just better somehow…”

He took a step back, arms folded as he considered him. “Happy.”

Jamie smiled, not bothering to hide the joy from his face. “Aye.”

Just then, the voices of the women announced their return from the garden. Claire came in first, eyes training on Murtagh automatically as she gave him a polite but cautious smile.

“Another visitor?” She asked Jamie. “Aren’t we popular today.”

“Aye.” He smiled, moving towards her automatically. “Allow me to introduce—”

Before he could say another word, Murtagh was stepping forward, shoving him aside.

“Nora?” The color drained from his face. “Nora Sheffield? Is it you?”

Nora stepped out from behind Claire, dropping the basket of vegetables they had collected in the garden.

“Murtagh?” Her arms hung limp by her side as she gaped at the burly old scot. 

They stood there, staring at each other for a long time, as Jamie looked from one stunned face to the other, slowly putting the pieces together.

“Hang on…” He rucked a hand through his hair. “This is the man? The man from Scotland?”

From his peripheral vision, he saw Claire turn to him sharply, brow raised in question. Later, he mouthed to her in response.

Nora didn’t tear her eyes away from Murtagh, but she nodded. “Yes.”

Claire came to Jamie’s side and his arm slipped around her automatically as they watched the scene unfold in front of them. Nora and Murtagh were no more than an arm’s length away from one another now, staring and speechless.

“Ye look…” He whispered, voice gruff as his hand rose up to ghost over the curve of her cheek, making her gasp. “Christ, lass. Ye look the exact same as ye did when I last saw ye.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “Liar.”

She took a step closer, reaching out to take one of his large, calloused hands in hers. The moment was so emotional—so intimate—Jamie began to wonder if he and Claire shouldn’t slip out and give them some privacy. Before he could finish the thought, Claire was squeezing his arm, gesturing for the door.

Once outside, Jamie filled her in on the little information he had about Nora’s past love in Scotland.

“And you didn’t know?” Claire asked, breathless as she took in the story. “When she told you about the man she knew?”

“No, I didna have a clue.” He insisted. “She only said that she’d met him back in Scotland when she was a lass.”

“My god!” Claire laughed. “Really, what are the odds?”

“I dinna ken.” He said, smiling back as he steered her towards the woods.

“Where are we going?”

“Can ye walk with me for a bit?” He reached to his pocket, fingers tracing the outline of the small box through the fabric of his trousers. “I’ve somethin’ I need to ask ye.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check back soon! Jamie's got a verra important question to ask, and of course we've got to get ready for the wee Fraser bairn!!


	18. A Wedding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo this chapter turned out to be wayyyy more NSFW than I expected it to be. Idk how it happened, honestly. I’m still pretty new to writing smuttier scenes so when inspiration strikes I just kinda run with it! Anyhoo thanks to my beta and bae @lburks226 and to all of you who have read this story and supported me along the way!! 💕💕💕

May 16th, 1954 

They walked hand in hand, the only sound being the pleasant chatter that reverberated across the cool spring ground and through the branches of the trees that surrounded them. At five months, Claire still moved with some semblance of ease, though if the tightness at the base of her spine was any indication, she’d have to take a break to sit down before too long. 

“How much further?” She winced, pressing balled up fists into the small of her back. 

Jamie looked down at her, peaceful bliss sharpening to concern. “Are ye alright?” 

His eyes flicked down to where her arms were hooked behind her, massaging the source of the ache. “Christ, Sassenach, I’m sorry! I wasna thinkin—” 

Pushing up onto her tiptoes, she pecked him quickly on the lips. “Don’t be silly Jamie, I’m fine. I just might need to stop for a spell if it’s going to be much further.” 

He bit his lip anxiously, before his eyes lifted to flick across the clearing around them. Suddenly, the crease in his brow smoothed out as his face lit in an easy, loving smile that nearly made her heart stop in her chest. 

“Actually, Sassenach…” He lifted her hand to his lips. “Here will do just fine.” 

Before she could say another word, Jamie was dropping to his knee, staring up at her. 

“I ken it’s soon.” He whispered softly. “Perhaps too soon, what w’ ye only free of Randall naught but a day, but…” 

He extracted a small velvet box from his pocket, making her gasp into the palm of her hand. 

“I’ve been yours my entire life..” He told her in a sure, steady voice, eyes clear and heartbreakingly blue as he gazed up at her. “I ken it as well as you do. And now I need the world to ken it too.” 

She was already nodding, amidst a flurry of gasping breath and snotty tears, before he’d even said the words. 

“Will ye marry me, Claire?” 

A torrential waterfall of emphatic “yeses” fell from her mouth as she collapsed to her knees on the ground in front of him, throwing herself into his arms. 

“I’ve a ring for ye.” He sniffed, wiping his nose with the back of his hand before bringing the small velvet box between them and prying it open. “It was my mother’s.” 

The ring was exquisite—a teardrop of emerald surrounded by a halo of small, sparkling diamonds, set on an elegant gold band that slid easily over the bony expanse of her left ring finger. It felt as though it was the only ring she’d ever worn, settling into her skin, as easy as breathing. 

“Jamie!” She gasped, overwhelmed by the gesture.

“Do ye like it?” He asked, voice anxious as his eyes flicked from her to the ring. 

She couldn’t stop the slow, steady column of tears that slipped down her cheeks as she smiled at him. “It’s perfect.” 

Their foreheads pressed together as they knelt there in the warm grass, wrapped tightly in one another’s arms. 

“Where were you going to take me?” 

The tips of his ears turned pink as he smiled wryly. “Ye remember the wee pond I took ye to that night? The night that we… ye ken?” 

This time it was Claire’s turn to go a little pink, flushing with the heat of memory. “Seems so long ago… almost like a dream.” 

Jamie let out a low, slow, contented sigh. “I feel like I am dreamin’ now,” he whispered. “I thought those wee stolen moments were all I would ever have w’ ye. And now…” 

His hands came up between them to settle on the swell of her belly. “I get to fill my days w’ ye, Sassenach.” 

 

******

The next few weeks passed by in a dreamy blur. With the help of Nora, they arranged the details swiftly and without much fuss. After a twenty-minute drive down the road to the Avery County Courthouse, they quickly emerged with a marriage license. Claire wore large sunglasses, her hair tied back under a silk scarf—if the passing citizens noticed her, they didn’t show it. Neither of them wanted to lend any great extravagance to the ceremony, having already bound themselves together those many months before. 

Nora, however, insisted that Claire be able to select her perfect dress. For her wedding with Frank, her opinion had been of little issue. She was zipped into an expensive designer dress, selected by a stylist whose name she couldn’t remember, and sent down the aisle feeling pinched and uncomfortable. 

Climbing into a car in the early morning hours, the two women snuck down to Charlotte, where they had managed to secure a few private hours to peruse one of the higher end boutiques. They scoured the racks, covered in decadent waves of ivory and lace, until the dress Claire had dreamt of—without even realizing it—seemed to appear before their eyes. 

It was a soft, creamy off-white, with sleeves that hit her just above the elbow and a hemline that fell just below her knees. The neck was plunging, diving deep within the swell of her breasts, the size of which had been increasing exponentially as a result of her pregnancy. It was simple, yet elegant and sturdy—a disposition that Claire sympathized with in the most intimate degree. 

She gazed at herself in the mirror, eyes drawn more than once to the bulge at her stomach and the slight roundness gathering at her hips and thighs. She’d never been one to consciously obsess over her figure, yet she couldn’t help but notice the faint nigglings of insecurities that were starting to wear away at her from the back of her mind.

As much joy as she took in those next few weeks of planning her future with Jamie, the ghosts of her past were restless, clawing away at her edges and weakening her defenses. 

Sometimes it frightened her, the way Jamie made her feel. So breathtakingly, deliriously happy. She knew it had never been this way with Frank—knew it in the very core of her being. And yet, she couldn’t help but think of that hopeful and young girl she’d been at eighteen, taking Frank’s name, along with his word to love and protect her. He had done neither, and the wound of that was still healing. 

In truth, Frank’s affairs had affected her more than she let on. That constant feeling of not being enough. She could still remember lying awake at night in an empty bed, wondering what on earth was wrong with her. She was better now—stronger and able to see the situation for what is was. But old habits die hard. 

If it had been painful with Frank, such a wound would be mortal if inflicted by Jamie. She felt ashamed even considering the possibility that he would do such a thing—and yet, her battered soul couldn’t help but conjure images of him, turning away from her changed body in disgust, taking comfort in the bed of some other faceless woman. 

Overcome by fear and shame, she began to resist his touch more often in the final weeks leading up to their wedding. Jamie tried to ignore it. He knew that all women handled pregnancy differently and he didn’t want to push her beyond the limits of her comfort. Instead, he only lay awake at night, letting his eyes trace the sweet and gentle curves of her body, whispering secrets of love and devotion in the dark. 

******

June 16th, 1954 

The Wedding 

The wedding was a simple affair- practically a small family gathering compared to that of her first marriage. Wary of risking the scrutiny of the public eye, Jamie and Claire opted to have the ceremony wrapped up in their private bubble at the Ridge. The guest list was small: Nora and Murtagh, of course, along with the Bugs. And, obviously, a few familiar faces from Washington. Geillis and Mary arrived the night before, delighted in Claire’s pronounced bump that seemed to appear overnight. John, Hector, and Elias arrived the morning of the ceremony, bringing expensive champagne, each of them greeting Jamie with a warm clap on the shoulder, all of them delighting in their friend’s happiness. 

The ceremony was performed outside in the meadow near the garden by a priest that had been brought down from Asheville. It was quick and effortless, with no great flourish. They exchanged wedding bands—plain and gold, purchased by Jamie the week before from a small shop in town. They spoke the words that confirmed once and for all what they had known to be true from the start—that they were bound, forever, to one another, inseparable halves of the same whole.

Their wedding supper was an equally simple affair, prepared by Mrs. Bug and Nora. Honey glazed ham, potatoes mashed with garlic and butter, and a roasted medley of fresh vegetables from Claire’s garden. The tiny kitchen was dotted with candles as they crammed around the oblong table, laughing and telling stories until the moon was high in the sky. All the while, Claire’s hand seemed to remain permanently attached to Jamie’s thigh, her eyes always lingering on the gold band sitting on his finger. 

At some point, Jamie’s mood shifted, and he went from enjoying the company of their friends to practically targeting Claire with the molten hot lava burning in the deep blue of his eyes. He had indulged throughout the night in the red wine and champagne, and as the night wore on, he became more unabashed as his eyes ran over the curves of her body, more often than not settling at the swell of her cleavage. 

Without meaning to, Claire provoked the beast in him when she leaned over the table to retrieve the salt, inadvertently squashing her breasts together within the swathes of billowing white at her chest. The moment she settled back in her chair, Jamie’s hand clamped down hard on her thigh as he leaned in, his breath hot and urgent in her ear. 

“If ye do that again, Sassenach…” he squeezed, “I swear to god I will have ye right here on the table.” 

Claire stiffened in surprise, whispering to him from the corner of her mouth. “What are you talking about?” 

His eyes dropped, dark and heady, down to the swell of her breasts, as he bit his lower lip. “Yer breasts, Claire.” He rasped low under his breath. “Yer a walkin’ sin in that dress.” 

She gasped, her eyes glazing over, her lips parting involuntarily as her breath quickened. He chuckled, low and sultry, and pressed closer to her. 

“Is that what ye want mo nighean donn?” He purred, tongue darting out to tickle against her ear. “Ye want to make me so mad w’ the wanting of ye- reduce me to naught but a raving beast, ready to hike up yer dress and swive ye senseless?” 

Her mouth went dry and she had to close her eyes, lest they roll back in her head in full view of their dinner guests. She wanted him—wanted him so badly she could scarcely stand it. It had been over a week since they’d had one another, and they were both feeling the ache substantially. She hated that her insecurity had kept her from him. Even when they did make love, she find herself unable to get lost in him, as she once had, the more so as her body continued to change, with angry red stretch marks now streaking across the ever growing swell of her stomach and on the insides of her thighs. 

She thought of that first night they’d shared together—their first wedding night, in a way. She remember how he’d made her feel, like he wanted her and needed her like air. She’d felt unstoppable, irresistible, like a force of nature. She wanted that feeling back- desperately. Wanted this night to be perfect. Wanted it to be just Claire- and just Jamie- the way it had been when they first began. 

Much later, after the guests had left, Claire waited upstairs in their bedroom as Jamie conducted his nightly ritual: checking every door and window, making sure the house was properly locked up for the night. She had stripped out of her wedding dress and slipped into a white satin dressing gown, wearing nothing underneath. She paced around the room, wringing her hands, trying desperately to quell the storm of doubt raging within her. 

“Oh, mo chridhe…” Came a choked whisper from behind her. 

She turned to find him leaning back against the closed door, suit jacket draped over his arm, watching her with the sweetest reverence. 

“Ye look so beautiful I could weep.” He drawled, pushing himself off the door. 

He moved into the room, placing his suit jacket over the back of the arm chair in front of the fireplace. He didn’t take his eyes off of her as he jerked loose the knot of his tie, yanking it over his head. 

“”Twas a pleasant evening’, no?” He asked conversationally as he made quick work of his shirt buttons before shrugging out if it, letting it fall on the floor. 

“Perfect.” She whispered back, hoping he couldn’t hear the hammering of her heart. 

Smiling, he took a step towards her. Without meaning to, she took a step back, wincing at the blatant hurt that flashed across his face. 

“I’m sorry… I didn’t mean…” she trailed off, lamely. 

His eyes were brimming with concern as he beseeched her to open up to him. “Is it me, Claire? Have I done—?” 

“No!” She interjected quickly. “No, it’s not you. It’s me. I just…” 

He took a cautious step towards her, still keeping his distance. “Talk to me, Claire.” 

The heartfelt, vulnerable worry in his voice practically made her knees buckle. She looked at him, hoping he could see what she was feeling in her eyes. 

“I want you so much, Jamie…” She began hoarsely. “But I just don’t see…”

“Just don’t see what?”

She looked away from him, wrapping her arms tight about her. “How you could possibly want me.” 

A stunned silence, and then, “What?” He practically roared. “How could ye think such a thing?” 

She shrugged, helplessly. “Look at me!” She groaned, her face flushed and contorted with embarrassment. “I’m enormous.” 

A long, intense silence fell over the room. Unable to stand it any longer, Claire chanced a glance at him through her lashes. What she saw nearly took her breath away. 

She could hear him breathing from where she stood across the room, his chest heaving madly under the white cotton of his undershirt. His fists were balled up at his sides, his eyes on her so black and stormy so as to be almost frightening. 

Jamie, for his part, was swiftly changing tactics, knowing his new bride to be a woman who responded to actions more than his words. They rarely spoke of her time with Randall, but he knew that his betrayals had hurt her deeply—causing her to doubt herself. He’d never realized it was this bad and he cursed himself for it. For not doing more to show her just how she undid him—how she could have him desperate and wanting with no more than the brush of her thigh against his. She needed to be sure. And he needed to make it clear, whatever it took. 

“D’ye no’ even ken what it does to me?” He said low, grumbling in his throat. “To see ye, sae bonny and round w’ the child I put in ye?” 

He approached her slowly, eyes hooded and dark. Emboldened by his words, she stiffened her shoulders and looked him straight in the eye. 

“Show me.” She replied. 

They both shivered as the heavy reminder of their first night together hung in the air. He brought his hands to her shoulders, pushing aside the white satin, until the dressing gown slipped off of her and pooled at the floor. Once she was bare before him, he urged her backwards until the back of her legs met the bed frame. 

“On the bed.” He hissed. It was not a request. “Now.” 

She complied, crawling backwards onto the mattress, hands gripping the sheets as she trembled in front of him, aroused to the point of madness. She watched as he undressed, slow and purposeful, until she could feast on the taut hard lines of his body, glowing and ethereal in the soft moonlight. He was silent as he stood before her, not moving, as the seconds drug on. So desperate for his touch, she began to whimper nonsensically in an effort to get him to do something—anything! 

Leaning forward, he bent his head down, lips ghosting over her collarbone—so close, but not touching. “What is it, Sassenach?” 

“Ah—please!” She huffed with sobbing breath. “Please touch me!” 

“Where?” He whispered, his face was higher up now, blowing on the skin between her breasts. “Where should I touch ye?” 

“Anywhere.” She whined, writhing under the ghost of his caress. “Everywhere, please.” 

He ran his fingers lightly up the tops of her thighs. “Och, but where to start?” 

She shivered, biting down on her lip so as to make no noise, letting out a soft (“oh!”) when he leaned in and pressed his mouth to the curve of her stomach. 

“I fell in love with your body Claire, in every possible form it could take.” He murmured into the rounded flesh, pressing wet, loud, sloppy kisses in a trail up the swell of her belly. “The shapes of you fill my mind, sleeping and waking.” 

He looked up at her then to see her gazing back down at him, biting her lip, eyes a clouded mix of desire warring with apprehension and fear. 

“Shall I tell you, then?” He panted. “Of how mad ye make me? How mad ye’ve always made me?” 

Whimpering, she nodded, desperate to be free of the chains holding her back from him. 

“Do ye remember the first time I touched ye?” He asked, turning his attention to the tops of her thighs, digging his nails into the soft flesh there as he spoke. “Do ye remember, Sassenach? How ye fell into my arms?” 

He took a soft hold of her by the knees, snaking his fingers under to lightly stroke the creases at the backs.

“I felt the curves of ye, pressed up against me. I was a goner then and there, mo nighean donn.” He purred as he knelt to the ground in front of where she lay on the bed. “Do ye have any idea how many nights I spent, alone in my bed, strokin’ myself cross-eyed, all the while imagining what it would feel like to touch ye? How ye would look, spread out and wanting beneath me?” 

Something in his words awoke the beast within her and she reared up, leaning back on her hands as she peered down at him, eye to eye. 

“Do you have any idea….” She panted, tongue darting out to wet her lips. “How many nights I spent with my hand between my legs…” 

His eyes widened, pupils dilating, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed, gaze glued to her taut nipples as she arched her back, taunting him with the smooth and creamy expanse of her skin. 

“Thinking of you…. inside me.” She flushed only a little, the words flowing off her tongue with a sultry ease that surprised her. 

“Fuck.” He snapped, enunciating clearly as though to adequately relay the depth of the sentiment. 

With a growl, he pushed her back down on the bed, hitching her legs over his shoulders and attaching his mouth to the center of the universe. The next few minutes passed in an ethereal chaos of stuttered profanities and slurred affirmations of adoration, want, and need, as she writhed and arched against the warm demand of his mouth. He smiled against her as he worked, the sounds of her moans and babbling lighting a fire at his core. 

She was just beginning to pass over that threshold into complete unawareness when he withdrew his mouth, wiping it on the round of her thigh as he slid up the length of her body. Turning her so that she lay on her side, he curled himself behind her, hand snaking down to the heat between her legs. She moaned when he slipped a finger inside her, choking on a breath when he added another. 

He leaned in, tracing a tongue around the outer shell of her ear as he let his lips whisper the filthiest secrets of his soul. 

“Yer body is a miracle to me, mo chridhe.” He slurred, drunk on the heady scent of her arousal as he pumped his fingers in and out at a punishing pace. “The way ye arch beneath me and quiver just so… I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of hearing yer wee grunts and groans.” 

“I don’t—ah!” She arched back against him as his fingers curled inward inside her. 

“That’s it, lass.” He breathed into the back of her neck. “I’ll have all of ye, always.” 

“Please.” She whined, bucking madly. 

“What do ye need?”

“You.” She heaved, cheek pressing down into the mattress as she shook. “Inside me. Now.” 

He chuckled, lips pressed to the curve of neck and shoulder. “Nah, not yet. I want to watch ye. Feel ye.” 

Those were the last words she heard as she let herself be swept up in the madness of euphoria, Jamie dominating all of her senses. His fingers driving inside her, again and again, his gravelly voice tickling her skin with words of want and need and pulsing desire. Pushing her higher until she quaked and shook with alarming intensity, the relief of release washing over her like rain in the desert. 

“Oh, Claire…” She heard him croak behind her, from what seemed like very far away. “I need ye so.” 

Still gasping and unable to open her eyes, she felt blindly behind her until she met the heat of him, hard as a steel rod pressed up against her thigh. She hummed dreamily, delighting in his sputtered gasps as she took him in hand, guiding him to her. 

“Christ Almighty…” He groaned as he slipped inside, the barriers between them dissolving like sand in water. 

Snaking one arm down between her and the mattress so he could wrap it across her chest, and bringing the other one to grip her hard by the flesh of her thigh, he rocked his hips upwards and into her, in a slick and steady rhythm, as he rubbed the stubble of his chin against the tender flesh at her neck. 

Reaching back, she grabbed him by the rock hard muscle of his thigh as he keened the most delicious filth, profane slurs, and praise. He made her feel like some sort of ancient pagan goddess and he but a mortal man, rejoicing in his good fortune that he’d been called to worship her. 

They moved together as he whispered to her his awe of her body, how good she felt wrapped around him, how the curves of her flesh drove him feral with need. He rocked his hips against her like the waves of the ocean breaking against the shore. Rolling, rising, and crashing, moving at a steady and practiced pace, controlled and agonizingly slow. She felt desperate as he withdrew from her, gasping and biting into her skin, before pitching back in, bit by bit, until he filled her once more. 

She rocked back against him, filling the darkness around them with sounds of her urgency, her fingers digging grooves into the skin of his arms where they wrapped around her. 

“Harder.” She demanded through gritted teeth. 

With a wicked smile and quick nip at her earlobe, he obliged, taking a firmer grip of her hip and pistoning up and into her from behind, attaching his teeth to the flesh of her shoulder. Nothing else in the universe existed—or had ever existed—other than the feeling of his hard body slamming into hers. The only sounds that came were his snarls into the flesh of her back, how he loved her, wanted her, needed her. 

“Oh, God, I’m going to…” She wailed, mouth pressing into the mattress. “Oh, Christ, don’t stop....” 

A triumphant chuckle against her ear as he dug his fingers into her hip, adjusting his angle just so and then— 

Sounds that she didn’t know she was capable of making rang out through the shadows as he pushed her over what felt like the edge of the world, sending her off into some nameless abyss as she spasmed uncontrollably, knowing nothing but sensation. She dimly appreciated his guttural groaning into her ear, announcing his own finish, before floating off and losing herself in the bliss of pulsing darkness. 

Sometime later, she came back to herself, feeling Jamie’s hand once more creeping between her legs. She arched up, trying to get away, certain she couldn’t take any more, and yet so desperate to feel him again. 

“Jamie…” She begged, hands gripping the sheets as she writhed against him. “Jamie… please…” 

“Sshh… I’ve got ye. I’m here.” He crooned, draping his arm over her, to interlock his fingers with hers. “And I willna let ye go.”


	19. Epilogue (Part One)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been the absolute wildest ride and I cannot believe it’s almost over!! 😭This chapter is the first of a two part epilogue- the second part will be up tomorrow! I really wanted these last two chapters to be a tribute to all of you have supported me along this journey! So buckled up for loads of Fraser fluff! 💕

Jamie had always been a little overprotective of Claire — he was self aware enough to admit that. But now that Claire was carrying his child, he was in full-blown warrior mode, constantly looking for danger around every corner. She was good enough not to say anything about it, only giving him pointed looks out of the corner of her eye whenever he got a little carried away. 

Claire’s due date was September 27th and as it drew closer and closer, Jamie found himself nearly frantic. They had a plan for after the birth: they’d spend the following few months at the ridge, giving mother and child time to heal and adapt, before catching the next plane to Scotland. He wasn’t sure what kind of life they would build there—he just knew they would build it together, and the thought made him so blissfully happy that sometimes it truly did not feel real. 

In a more immediate sense, however, life was much more terrifying. While they did indeed have solid plans for after the birth, the actual giving birth part of the agenda had Jamie lying awake at night, every possible scenario running through his mind. It was an instinct to protect Claire—something he did without thought. Now, as the date approached, he grew overwhelmed by the realization that the dangers Claire was about to face head-on were dangers that he could do nothing at all to protect her from. 

He could do nothing. Nothing whatsoever. Except pray. And pray he did. At the first, when he woke, and at the last, before he slept, and in every free moment in between—he prayed. Lord, that she may be safe — she and the child. 

******* 

September 20th, 1954 

The Ridge, Banner Elk, North Carolina 

James Fraser was many things, but deep sleeper was not one of them. Years in the army had trained him to wake at the first hint of external stimulation. A creak of the floorboards in the hall outside their bedroom. The rustling of strong wind in the gauzy white curtains that hung before the bay window. 

However, the sleepless nights had taken their toll on him–they must have–for he was so deeply asleep that Claire was actually struggling to wake him up. 

“Jamie!” She called, much louder than she had the first ten times, shaking him by the shoulders and dragging him slowly to the surface. 

“Hmm?” He intoned, without opening his eyes. “What is it Sassenach?” 

“We need to go.” She said in a calm, yet no-nonsense tone. 

“Wha....?” He broke into a yawn as he rubbed his eyes. “Go where... ?” 

“To the hospital!” She bit back in a tone that suggested her patience was wearing somewhat thin. 

“Hmmm?” He hummed back, frowning just a little, as he attempted to burrow deeper under the blankets. “Why?” 

A few moments of pointed silence, and his eyes blinked open as realization rushed over him in a wave of panic. 

“Are you…?” He sat up. 

She nodded, exasperated. “My water broke.” 

“Oh.” He said blankly at first, and then much louder, “OH!” 

He was out of bed in a flash, spinning around frantically, as his hands ran through his tousled mass of hair repeatedly. 

“Oh Christ! Oh bloody fucking…” He was pacing at a light jog around the room with no apparent objective or goal. 

“Jamie—” 

He came to her at once, gently pushing her back to the chaise in the corner. 

“Dinna fash, ye just sit down and relax, I put the bags over— “ 

He fell on the floor, face first, having tripped on the bags that Claire had already placed by the door. 

“Oh Jamie!” She cried, doing everything she could not to laugh. “Are you alright?” 

He popped back up in an instant, appearing unfazed, undeterred from his decided course of action. 

“I’m fine, Sassenach, let’s just get going, aye?” 

She eyed him as he stood before her shirtless and barefoot- wearing nothing but plaid pajama bottoms that hung off his hips- hair strewn about in wild tufts atop his head. 

“But Jamie, what about—” 

He didn’t appear to be listening, muttering rapidly as though to himself. Without further word, he turned from her, picked up the bags, and was out the door, leaving her on the chaise. 

****** 

Downstairs, Murtagh and Nora—who had been roused by the noise from the upper level—were waiting in the sitting room. 

“What on earth?” She laughed, taking in Jamie’s wild, undressed appearance as he clamored down the stairs with the bags. 

“Oh good, you’re up,” he said with an air of authority that made his current state all the more amusing. “The baby is coming, we’re going to the hospital.” 

They both stared at him for a moment, doing their best to suppress their laughter and doing a poor job of it. 

Jamie glared at them, thoroughly unamused. “Well don’t just stand there! We need to get going!” 

At that, Murtagh laughed out loud. “Och, lad, I think yer forgetting something.” 

Jamie frowned in confusion before looking down at himself, only just realizing that he hadn’t bothered to dress. 

“A couple things it would seem,” Nora giggled. “Where’s Claire?” 

“Coming!” 

She lumbered down the stairs slowly, dressed in a bright and flowery maternity dress, face freshly scrubbed and thick curls pinned back neatly. In her arms she carried clothes for Jamie: a pair of simple brown trousers, a shirt and jacket, as well as his favorite pair of loafers. 

Nora chuckled and shook her head. “Unless Claire is planning to go to the hospital by herself, I reckon the three of us ought to go get dressed, hmm?” 

They helped Claire settle comfortably on the couch before parting ways to change. Jamie took the clothes Claire had brought him and ducked into the downstairs bath, while Nora and Murtagh retreated back to the bedroom they had shared since their miraculous reunion on the Ridge weeks before. 

Jamie returned first, having taken less than two minutes to dress. His hair was still wild and unkempt as he knelt down in front of her. 

“How do ye feel, Sassenach?” 

“I’m fine.” She smiled tenderly at him, stroking his cheek before reaching up to smooth out his hair the best she could. “We’re fine.” 

His hands came automatically to rest on the swell of her stomach as he blushed and smiled sheepishly. 

“I’m sorry Sassenach, I dinna ken what’s wrong with me,” he muttered, bringing her hands to his lips and pressing a kiss to each palm. 

She laughed, shaking her head. “You’re about to become a father, Jamie.” They gazed at one another in wonderment, stealing a perfect, quiet moment alone with the life they had created. “You’re just nervous is all.” 

“Aye, I am.” He nodded, wry smile morphing into bemused curiosity as he took in her composed demeanor. “How are ye so calm, then?” 

She shrugged, grinning. “Mother’s intuition, I suppose.” 

******** 

Baby Ellen Nora Elizabeth Fraser was born at half past six in the evening, weighing in at a perfect 7 pounds 2 ounces. Ten perfect tiny pink fingers and ten perfect tiny pink toes—Jamie had counted them obsessively. Claire could not remember ever being more tired in her life—and she was sore and achy in places she hadn’t known existed—and yet, as she lay there in that hospital bed, gazing out at her family around her, she was so happy she wasn’t sure she could stand it. 

“She’ll be needin’ godparents,” Jamie said gruffly as he eased the baby gently into her name sake’s arms. “I couldna think of two people more suited for the job.” 

Nora was speechless, nearly undone with emotion as she held the bundle in her arms, nodding and weeping with joy. Murtagh stood just behind her, hands on her shoulders, gazing down at the baby with a tenderness Jamie had not known him capable of. 

“We’d be honored, lad.” 

Jamie came to Claire’s side, leaving the baby for a moment with her admirers. 

“How are ye feeling, Sassenach?” He whispered, pressing his lips gently to her brow. 

She smiled up at him, running a hand along the curve of his jaw. “Perfect.” 

********  
September 21, 1954

The next morning, Claire roused from sleep to the sound of Jamie’s voice, rumbling in low, tender tones. It was some great effort, in her languid state, to obtain sufficient coherence so as to actually understand what he was saying, but she managed nonetheless.

“I’m so happy yer here, a leeanan,” he crooned. 

Claire peeked her eyes open just a bit to see Jamie, bathed in the sunlight that shone through the window, bouncing as he walked around the room, Ellen making soft, sweet gurgling noises from where she lay in his arms. 

“I’ve got so much to show ye!” He went on, the excitement in his voice intoxicating. “When we get back to Scotland, I’ll take ye fishin and teach ye how to hunt. When yer big enough, that is.” 

Claire smiled to herself, wanting to comment, but not wanting to ruin the moment. 

“I hope ye like stories a nighean.” He went on in an impossibly soft voice. “Cause I’ve got quite a few to tell.” 

She shifted a little in bed, looking for a more comfortable position — carefully, though, so as not to disturb him. She wasn’t sure she would ever get over the sight of Jamie talking to their daughter. The look of pure wonderment on his face, the way his eyes traced delicately over every line of her features — as though he was memorizing her, imagining the life she would lead. 

“There’s the one about the Minister and the Fairy, and the one about the Water Horse’s Wife... “ He trailed off dreamily. 

He turned back towards the bed then, and Claire quickly squeezed her eyes shut, wanting to know what he would say next. Gently, he sat down on the edge of the bed by her side. 

“And then, of course, there’s my favorite story of all…” The unbridled love in his voice pierced her heart. “The story of how I found yer Mam. Or — of how she found me, depending on how ye look at it.” 

Laughing softly to himself, he leaned down and pressed a feather-light kiss to Ellen’s forehead. 

“It all started when she fell off a wee stool and I had to catch her. She’s a verra clumsy woman, ye ken, but I dinna mind it so much.” 

Claire had to bite her lip to keep from chiming in at that particular remark. 

“I loved her the moment I touched her... “ He trailed off, swallowing thickly. “War changes ye. It changed me. When I came back, nothing felt real. I was sleepwalking, trapped in a nightmare I couldn’t escape. And then I caught yer Mother in my arms and it was like wakin’ up again.” 

Everything around the three of them fell away. Claire could hear nothing—not the buzz of activity in the hospital halls, nor the traffic filled street just outside the window—nothing but the sound of Jamie’s tender, loving rumbly voice. 

“I want ye to be just like her. I ken ye’ll have her sharp wit. I want ye to always use it and speak yer mind, even when people say it’s no’ yer place. I want ye to be loyal to yer friends — and I want ye to love fiercely, just like she does.” 

Seemingly without thought, Jamie brought one hand to rest on the swell of Claire’s thigh. 

“Most importantly, I want ye to fight. Fight for what ye want, and for what ye deserve,” he whispered hoarsely. “I want ye to be brave, a nighean.” 

Claire opened her mouth, ready to finally speak, when—

“The world can seem scary, but ye should not be worried w’ it. Ye’ve nothing to be afraid of.” His grip on Claire’s thigh tightened slightly. “Nothing at all—so long as I’m with you.”


	20. Epilogue (Part Two)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s so hard to say goodbye to these two but hopefully it won’t be forever! I’ve gotten a lot of requests for ficlets along with some amazing prompts so I’d say there’s a good chance these two love birds will be back around soon enough! 
> 
> In the mean time thank you all so much for reading this story! You’ve made this whole experience so much fun and I cannot thank you enough for all the encouragement! 💕💕
> 
> Ps I’m going to take some time this weekend and respond to as many comments as I can!! Please know that I see and read each one and that they mean so much to me 🤗

Sunday, November 4th 1967 

Broch Mordha, Inverness-shire, Scotland 

 

“Ellen Nora Elizabeth Fraser!” Claire called up the stairs, patience worn beyond thin. “If you do not come down these stairs right—” 

“Dinna fash, Mam!” She said, exasperated, as she obligingly trudged down the stairs. “I’m here!” 

Their daughter was a vision in a perfectly pressed bright blue dress, her thick brown curls pinned back neatly in the style that Claire had taught her with a practiced hand. 

“Took ye long enough,” Jamie commented from where he sat at the kitchen table, sipping his coffee. “Ye’d think we were goin’ to tea with the Queen herself.” 

Ellen rolled her eyes. “I just wanted to look nice, is all.” 

Claire raised her brows, but clamped her mouth shut, knowing that any musings she might share on what she suspected to be the reason for their daughter’s desire to look her best would almost ensure they would be late for mass. 

While Jamie was a wonderful father, his somewhat excessive protective nature was beginning to cause more than a little strife with Ellen. Newly into her teens, she had a fierce, independent mind and a quick tongue that had gotten her in trouble more than once. 

Ellen looked around expectantly. “Where are the others?” 

“Grandda and Granny picked them up early and took them out to breakfast — they’ll meet us there.” 

“They went to breakfast?” She pouted. “Without me?” 

Claire stifled a laugh as she ushered her husband and daughter out the door. “You weren’t awake in time.” 

The thirteen year old was still grumbling moodily when she slid into the backseat of the car. 

“Ye could’ve woke me.” 

“Och, and risk gettin’ our heads bitten off?” Jamie quirked a brow at her in the mirror. “In case ye’ve no’ noticed, yer no’ particularly pleasant in the mornings a nighean.” 

She didn’t answer this, only rolled her eyes and went about her sulking. Claire, through a sidelong glance at Jamie, saw that he was trying not to smirk. 

*******

They made it to church just in time, sliding into one of the pews in the back behind Nora and Murtagh, just a few minutes before the service started. 

“Mam!” Willie turned around, smiling excitedly. “Grandda let me order the triple chunk chocolate chip pancakes!” 

“Did he now?” Claire asked sweetly, casting a side eye at Murtagh, silently reproaching him for hyping her nine year old son up on sugar right before mass. 

“Och, lad, that was supposed to be a secret!” He grumbled, throwing an arm across his wife’s shaking shoulders. 

Brianna perked up next. “Da, can we please finish building my birdhouses after mass? Please?” 

Jamie smiled fondly, reaching out to tousle her bright red locks. “We’ll see, a chuisle.” 

Henry was the last of their brood to join in, getting up on his knees and turning towards them, elbows resting on the back of the pew, just like his brother and sister. 

“Why do ye look like that Ellen?” He asked, tilting his head quizzically. 

Ellen, who’d been staring at something (or someone?) across the room, snapped her head back towards her younger brother in surprise. “Like what?” 

“I dinna ken, ye just look different.” He shrugged, and quickly added, “Ye look bonny though!” 

For the first time that morning, the eldest Fraser sibling’s face lit up with a genuine smile. “Thank ye, ye wee loon.” 

Brianna, never one to give up the spotlight without a fight, rolled her eyes. “Ye ken she’s only dressin’ like that so she can impress—” 

“Shhhh!” Claire admonished, pointing forward. “Mass is starting.” 

The younger Frasers obligingly turned back around and took their seats. Claire gazed fondly at their three tiny heads--Brianna and William’s matching red locks, sandwiching Henry’s endearing mop of dark brown curls--as she nestled into Jamie’s side. 

“Ye ken what day it is, Sassenach?” He whispered, tightening his arm around her.   
Claire thought for a moment. “It’s the fourth, isn’t it?” 

“Aye.” He smiled. “The fourth of November.” 

She stared at him, waiting for the punchline. “What of it?”

“Och, dinna tell me ye’ve forgotten!” 

“Forgotten wha—Oh!” She gasped. 

“Aye.” His smile grew wider. “Fifteen years to the day.” 

Fifteen years. She couldn’t believe it. She tried to remember how she felt that day — tried to find some sense of familiarity with the woman she had been then. The woman who was frozen, numb, content to let her life go by without a fight. For the most part, that day existed in her memory as a blur of sadness and vague recollections. The only detail she recalled with absolute clarity was the moment she had fallen into Jamie’s arms, and looked up into his eyes of ocean blue. 

“Hard to believe is it no’?” 

“Yes…” She breathed. “It feels like a different lifetime.” 

In another life, she recalled with a pang. 

So much had happened. So much had changed. The move to Scotland when Ellen was six months old. The house they’d built from the ground up, just a few miles down the road from Lallybroch. The distillery Jamie had started with Ian and Jenny — one that was now the most successful in the Highlands. 

“If you’d told me all those years ago…” She said, shaking her head. “That one day I’d be Mrs. Fraser…” 

“No’ Mrs!” He corrected primly. “It’s Dr. Fraser, and I’ll thank ye to remember it!” 

She made a show of rolling her eyes, even though she couldn’t stop the flush of pleasure in her cheeks. His unabashed pride for her success always made her heart stutter in her chest. She would never forget the day she’d received her acceptance letter to the Medical School at the University of Aberdeen (Inverness Campus, of course). Even now, her chest swelled when she recalled the happy tears that had pooled in his eyes as he swept her off her feet and into a crushing hug. 

“I’m so proud of ye, mo nighean donn!” He’d rasped into her ear. “So verra proud!” 

It hadn’t been easy — but they’d managed. The former Nora Randall (who now went by Nora Fraser) had been with them every step of the way, as had Claire’s sister-in-law Jenny. The three women had formed an unbreakable bond over the years — she wasn’t sure if she and Jamie would have managed without them. 

But they did — and then some. Claire had graduated top of her class and now worked at a highly successful private practice in Inverness. And as much joy as that brought her, it was the love of the man beside her—and of the four miraculous children they’d given one another—that made her world go round. 

Four birth certificates that they kept in the lockbox in the study. Four pieces of paper that marked the breath of new life into the world — commemorating the moments in which their hearts had grown impossibly larger, filled with more love than either of them thought possible. 

Ellen Nora Elizabeth Fraser, born September the 20th, 1954 at 6:31 pm - Avery County General Hospital - Banner Elk, North Carolina 

William James Murtaugh Beauchamp Fraser, born November 23rd, 1959 at 10:48 am - St. Kilda’s Memorial Hospital - Broch Mordha, Scotland 

Brianna Julia Caitriona Fraser, born November 23rd, 1959 at 12:32 pm - St. Kilda’s Memorial Hospital - Broch Mordha, Scotland 

Henry John Elias Fraser, born February 26th, 1962 at 11:57 pm - St. Kilda’s Memorial Hospital - Broch Mordha, Scotland 

 

Some days she had trouble convincing herself it was real, so terrified she would wake up as the woman she was fifteen years ago — cold, alone, and supposedly barren. She tried not to think too much of all those years with Frank because…. well, thinking of Frank at all made her stomach turn in on itself. 

It had been four years since she’d received the call. The call that told her that her ex-husband and former President had died by the hand of one of his many disgruntled mistresses. The whole thing had been a nasty and sordid affair, and it was the first time that Claire and Jamie had felt truly threatened in the bubble they had created for themselves in Scotland. She’d declined to attend the funeral, but that didn’t stop the reporters from seeking her out. 

Thankfully, the people of the Highlands—who had long since accepted Claire as one of their own—served as more than sufficient buffers, not speaking a word to the reporters no matter how much money was offered. 

Claire spent the night of Frank’s funeral alone with Nora, who had been forbidden to attend. While a few of her children had begrudgingly forgiven her for what she’d done to Frank, for the most part, to the Randall family (particularly to her ex-husband), she was persona non grata. Now that Claire had children of her own, the weight of what Nora had done for her and Jamie was overwhelming. The night of Frank’s funeral, they drank and reminisced — Claire giving Nora the space to mourn the son she’d loved, but never understood. 

For Claire, it had been easy to forgive Frank. She pitied him — pitied how little true joy he had found in his life. She prayed for him from time to time — prayed that he had found peace somehow in the end. 

If the children had noticed any of the spectacle caused by the funeral, they hadn’t let on. Jamie and Claire knew they would have to tell them something eventually. Naturally, they would have questions. For the most part, the finer points of American culture didn’t tend to reach the Highlands. That is, until a young American family—with a daughter Ellen’s age—had moved into town. Just last week, Ellen had come home with an old magazine clipping brought to her by her new American classmate. It was a picture of Claire and Frank standing next to De Gaulle in Paris. 

They’d laid awake for hours that night, trying to decide what to tell their daughter. They knew the time was coming, but they weren’t afraid. Like everything in life, they would face it together. 

******

After mass, the children practically bolted out the front door of the kirk, eager for a few minutes of play outside with their cousins. 

“Will we see ye for dinner tonight?” Jenny asked Claire as the adults made their way outside, at a much slower pace than the children. 

“It’s a Sunday, isn’t it?” Claire answered with a warm smile. 

Outside, Jamie and Claire began the tedious task of tracking down and collecting their offspring. Brianna, Henry, and William all accounted for, Jamie looked around the crowded kirk lawn, frowning. 

“Where’s Ellen gone off to then?” 

“Och, she’s just there- flirtin’ w’ Tammas Baxter!” Brianna offered automatically with a roll of her eyes, confirming Claire’s suspicions. 

Sure enough, their first born stood in the shade of a large oak tree, smiling and batting her lashes at a very nervous, though thoroughly pleased, Tammas. 

Claire had to bite her lip to keep from laughing at Jamie’s answering soft groan. So caught up in watching Ellen, they barely even noticed when the three younger Frasers stole away for a few extra moments of play. 

They watched her from where they stood—Jamie’s arm coming up automatically to drape over Claire’s shoulder, hers wrapping about his waist. 

Their daughter was as tall as Claire now and quickly gaining speed in her growth. She smiled at the lad, flipping her hair over her shoulder in an almost painfully obvious flirtatious gesture. 

Jamie groaned again. “The bairns are growing up, Sassenach. How am I to survive it?” 

She looked up at him, resting her chin on his shoulder. 

“Stay close to me.” She said, eyes glittering. “I’ll protect you.” 

 

THE END!!!! 💕💕💕


End file.
